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HARVESTINGS 



Iteldj^s in ^xnt mil M^ut. 



PT 



SYBIL HASTINGS. 



"The harvest yielded and her work all done, 
Baaklng in beauty 'neath the autumn sun." 



BOSTON: 
W. P. FETRIDOE & CO 

NEW YORK: J. C. DERBY. 
1855. 



''S 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 

J. A. ROSE, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



stereotyped by 

HOBART & ROBBINS, 

New England Type and Stereotype Foundery, 

BOiTON. 



MRS. SARAH H. WHITMAN, 

NEW ENGLAND'S SWEETEST POETESS, 

STljis Volume 

IS TENDERLY INSCRIBED. 



PREFACE 



In harvesting these buds of romance, culled during the 
half-gay, half-sad moments of early gklhood, the writer 
experiences an earnest hope that friendly glances will 
discern, beneath the crude and paler vestments which 
enfold them, the richer coloring, the softer, fragrance of 
maturer blossoms ; while in the threads drawn from the 
woof of many a life, which bind these fragile flowers of 
memory, they may j5nd woven hope and faith in human 
tenderness and love divine. 

In disclaiming the authorship of the Poems with which 
she has been permitted to embellish her little volume, the 
writer commends them to the favor of her friends. 

Providence, R. I., Decbmbee, 1854. 
1* 



CONTENTS 



PAGB 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS, . 10 

MIRANDA, 58 

FLORENCE VASSAL ; OR, REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH, 59 

LOVE, 98 

THE PRIMA DONNA ; OR, MISTS OF THE SPIRIT, 100 

TO THE ANGEL AZRAEL, 135 

HEATH HALL ; OR, A PACKAGE OF LETTERS, . . .• 137 

ONE I MET, 193 

THE SIGNET-RING ; OR, FRANCOISE DE FOIX, 195 

THE STATUED GATEWAY, 231 

THE HOMESTEAD, 233 

SPELLS OF MEMORY, 254 

THE CRAYON, 256 

LIGHT IN DARKNESS, 285 

ANNIE RUTLIDGE 5 OR, REMINISCENCES OF A PIANO, 286 

UNSPOKEN VOWS, 309 

THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 310 



HAEVESTINGS. 



ROSES. 



Once I brouglit crimson roses here, 
In the bright summer hours ; 

A low voice whispered, " They are dear, 
These blushing, blooming flowers." 

Poor roses withered long ago — 
Bright summer hours gone by ; 

Pallid beneath chill, wintry snow, 
Forevermore they lie ! 

Another hand than mine has brought 

Deep-tinted roses here ; 
O, hush, sad heart, thy trembling thought 

" These roses, are they dear? " 

Be glad to know, that on the air 

Of this enchanted room 
Still glows a lustre, rich and rare, 

Unshadowed by thy gloom. 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 



*« Wandering and toiling without gain. 
The slave of others' will. 
With constant care and frequent pain. 
Despised, forgotten still." 

AcTox Bell. 
*' Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet ; 
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit." 

Hood. 
*' The measure thou to her didst mete 
To thee shall measured be." 

" Hot cakes ! hot cakes ! Here 's your nice hot cakes ! '* 
wailed forth a faint, child-like voice, just before the entrance 
of one of Broadway's saloons of palatial splendor. The child 
had been out all day ; from seven in the morning until night- 
fall, she had dragged those worn and weary feet over the icy 
pavements. Frightened by the day's ill success, she had 
gone back to the miserable cellar from whence she received 
her supply of cakes, to hear herself reviled by every oppro- 
brious name ; and now, weary, disheartened, she was again 
abroad in the early evening, — the dark and cheerless even- 
ing ; to her made doubly dark and cheerless, by the luxury 
and beauty revealed by the mocking lights of the brilliantly 
illumined windows. 

Colder than the day had fallen the winter night, and more 
hopeless had grown the heart of the weary child. * ' Hot cakes ! 
hot cakes ! " she shouted to the passers-by ; but who would 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 11 

hearken to her cry, when the sharp night wind caused stout 
men to turn aside from its icy blast ? 

Through the glittering plate-glass poured the glare of the 
gas-lights over the cold curb-stone upon which sat the ema- 
ciated figure of the shivering child. The corner of a scanty 
shawl, serving for a hood, left the face utterly unprotected 
from the cold. It was a strange, dark little face, with its 
expression of premature age stamped thereon by suffering, 
and widely at variance with the dwarfed and reed-like figure. 
The small feet had ceased to ache ; they had become stiff and 
numb ; they could scarcely support her when she essayed to 
walk. 

The saloon before which she had paused was filled with 
visitors, for it was Christmas eve. Children were flitting 
about in gay dresses, their eyes sparkling with gratified 
desire, their cheeks crimson with health and happiness ; and 
there were many older persons present, looking tenderly upon 
them, and smiling benignantly upon their pleading, expectant 
ways, as they gathered about the costly trifles, the rare 
bijouterie of the holidays. 

Looking in at these gay children of loving care and afflu- 
ent prosperity, the expression of the girl's eyes, at first dull 
and listless, gradually changed. Large, dark and lustreless, 
they had been ; but, as a wild, uncontrollable longing after a 
share in all that joy and beauty, shut out from her by what 
seemed but a frail, transparent barrier of plate-glass, took pos- 
session of the little outcast of life, those eyes were no longer 
lustreless, — the soul, hungering after the beautiful yet more 
than the starved body for nourishment, was looking forth 
with a pitiful desire. You could read it in the hurried 
breathing, in the forgetfulness which suffered that apology 
for a bonnet to fall back from the matted, tangled locks she 
had sought to cover. But no human being could have 
divined the insane, increasing impulse within her, which went 
quivering to the very finger-ends of that soiled, skeleton 



12 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

hand, upraised with a wild, passionate desire to smite that 
fragile barrier rising between her misery and that prodigal 
luxury. 

Just at the moment when that almost frantic hand raised 
itself to the storm of passion within her breast, a carriage 
came dashing along so close to her side that she could feel 
the hot breath gushing from the nostrils of the prancing 
horses as they were drawn up. From the carriage there 
bounded the figure of a fairy, with a merry, childish laugh, 
accompanied by a gentleman, young and of graceful presence. 
She carried a little basket on her arm, and the falling out of 
several parcels with her rapid movements had caused the gay 
laugh ; and as her companion gathered them up, half hidden 
as she was in cloaks and furs, the beauty of the girl was not 
obscured. The wind swept back the white feathers wreath- 
ing the small satin hat, and with them a cloud of golden 
curls. With the step of a Peri she glided over the pavement 
and into the saloon. 

The glass door closed upon her, but she still remained vis- 
ible to the eyes that followed her. With tender assiduity 
the gentleman unclasped the fur cloak which she wore, and 
from spot to spot, from object to object, fluttered the bril- 
liant figure, while parcel after parcel was added to the basket, 
and again and again a small crimson purse produced, from 
which a glittering coin was forthcoming. To the eyes which 
regarded her with an interest so mournful, its contents appeared 
inexhaustible. But at length an earnest, eager hope came 
throbbing into being within her breast. She was cold, 
weary, hungry, — what if she should offer her cakes to that 
little fairy, who, with her inexhaustible wealth, purchased so 
much ? for, even if she should not hearken to her despair, 
with harsh words and rough hands she would not put her 
aside. Close, close to the lighted entrance she pressed her 
poor, frozen body, — on came the brilliant apparition, until 
in its contact the outcast experienced something like the 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 13 

sensation she would have felt had the radiance of a sum- 
mer's sun shone suddenly upon her wintry way. 

" Hot cakes ! hot cakes ! 0, please buy my hot cakes, I 
am so tired — so cold ! " and the trembling voice sank into 
a sob, as the large, wondering eyes looked into her own. 

" What makes you come out, if you are tired, little girl ? 
"Why don't you stay at home and keep warm ? " demanded 
an imperious though musical voice. 

" Margery 's got no home ; Margery will never be warm 
again ! " moaned the child. 

" What, don't you live nowhere, little Margery ? " ques- 
tioned a softer voice than had first addressed her, its impe- 
riousness quite gone. 

With her hand Margery pointed first up and then down 
Broadway. 

" Live in the street ! Live in the street ! Cousin Mark, 
she don't, does she ? " 

"Not literally," answered the gentleman, who had been 
listening with an amused air to the colloquy between the two ; 
"she would have you understand she is out most of the 
time at her trade of begging and vagrancy. But it is too 
cold for you to stand here chatting any longer, Rosa, love ; 
jump into the carriage, quick, — yes, I will give her some- 
thing ;" and drawing out a quarter of a dollar, he placed it 
in Margery's hand, saying, " Take it, you little vagabond, 
and off with you ! It is too cold to hear any more." 

But the poor numb fingers closed not on it greedily, as he 
had anticipated. She held it to him who gave it ; speaking 
in trembling, angry tones, " Margery an't a vagabond ; she 
asked you to buy her cakes." 

" Faith, you are one, though! " was the annoyed rejoinder ; 
and with passionate vehemence the child threw the money 
down ringing on the pavement, and passed on. 

As she did so, again a laugh smote upon her ear, but it 
was not the gay laugh of childhood. From the lips of pros- 
2 



14 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

perous, vigorous manhood it burst, mocking at the human 
pride swelling even in the heart of the starving wanderer. 

" Margery ! Margery ! " Twice she heard herself called 
upon, but heeded it not, as she stepped forward, languid, 
drooping beneath her burden. " Margery ! " It came again, 
in more earnest tones, and she paused to look back. 

The child was bending from the carriage window, the light 
falling full upon her. She beheld again the golden curls, the 
crimson cheeks, the blue and smiling eyes ; and they won her 
swiftly back. Standing on tip-toe upon the curbstone, in 
close contact with the child, she listened to her words. 

" He has gone back into the saloon. I sent him, for I 
want to tell you, little Margery, that I don't like it in him ; 
he is cross ; you ar' n't a vagabond. I am sorry about you, 
little girl, and I '11 tell mamma how cold you was, and that I 
gave you this to keep you warm." 

As she spoke, she dropped her velvet mantle, lined and 
edged with costly furs, by Margery's side. In the sudden 
bewilderment of the moment, the poor girl beheld the gentle- 
man spring across the walk into the carriage, the carriage 
driven oflP, and, with the rich, warm mantle falling upon her 
arm, caught only the echo of Rosa's voice, who, bending from 
the window, bade her " expect her again some sunny morning 
on Broadway." 

With a hand in its condition strangely at variance with the 
fabric which it touched, she gathered about her the mantle 
which had fallen warm as a sunbeam upon her, and glided on. 

" Hot cakes ! " rang out almost cheerily now upon the 
frosty air, and more than one passer-by paused to look back 
upon the strange apparition which crossed their path. 

" Please buy my cakes ! " She had moved but a few rods 
from where the carriage had driven off, when a hand which 
arrested her progress caused her to look up. Over those tat- 
tered habiliments, that uncovered head, and on the glistening, 
warm-hued velvet, fell the light; but the eager, hopeful 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 15 

expression changed to one of anxious uncertainty, for her 
glance rested upon the star shining conspicuous on a police- 
man's breast. 

A little way off he had perceived her stooping to the pave- 
ment for the mantle which had fallen from the carriage win- 
dow. Those Argus-eyes marked her envelop herself in its 
costly folds ; and futile were her tears, vain her explanation. 
Who would hearken to the incredible assertion that the man- 
tle had been given to her ? Poor Margery slept that night 
in the watch-house ; but the rough and brutal voices surround- 
ing her disturbed her not when the first pang of terror sub- 
sided into apathy, for they were not new to her. Long had 
they mingled with her dreams as she lay upon the pile of 
shavings in the darkest corner of that miserable cellar which 
she called her home. Sleeping, her dreams bore her back to 
a period more remote ; a period between the recollection of 
which and the present there lay such dense clouds of misery, 
as to shut out from memory, but in chance dreams or hours 
of wandering thought, all remembrance of its blessed peace. 
Once more the song of the robin, which, from its perch on 
the blossoming thorn, shook the white and silver buds to the 
green sward before their cottage door, mingled with her 
mother's lullaby to herself cradled upon her breast. Once 
again the winter fire hummed to itself its pleasant tune upon 
the hearth, as, seated upon a father's knee, she listened to 
those wondrous tales, always fresh-coined for his child's ear, 
out of the interest of love in the hour's gay mood. 

Again, — but now a cloud sweeps heavily over the vision 
of other days, and Margery moans aloud in her dreaming woe. 
Mamma, cold as ice to the lips which fall upon her cheek, 
sleeps on, silent to the entreaty which bids her wake ; and 
then a little, only a little while, and a stouter figure fills the 
place once occupied by the departed shadowy one. Louder 
tones harshly rebuke all childish foibles, and papa's red cheek 
grows redder with those words. Often now his step, once so 



16 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

firm and free, wavers on the threshold with a nameless weak- 
ness which she cannot comprehend, looking on his red cheek 
and burning eyes. Darker, darker yet the vision, — the old 
hearth gives way to a strange, unquiet home in the great city's 
stormy heart, and with a yet more bitter cry Margery awakes. 

The moonlight, shining through the barred and dingy win- 
dows about her, has lost its cold and stony hue in the sun's 
clear and cheering radiance ; but she heeds it not ; her 
mouth is parched ; the fever complaint of " Water ! 0, give 
me water to drink ! " is on her lips. 

With the memory of that dream still throbbing at her 
heart, she stood arraigned before a court of magistrates, and 
in that imperious presence which revealed itself as the father 
of the sunny-haired Rosa beheld a claimant of that unfor- 
tunate gift, in the beautiful folds of which lurked a treacher- 
ous accusation of herself. With her brain reeling in the 
incipient delirium of severe illness, and trembling beneath the 
glance of august rebuke bent upon her, she responded not to 
the accusation which so cruelly maligned her innocence. 
With strange, mute apathy she asked herself, when the sen- 
tence of many months' imprisonment was communicated to 
her, if it implied any deeper misery than she had already 
experienced ; and over that dark, hopeless face there rained no 
tears, there flitted no expression of sorrow. With every limb 
racked with acute pain, and deadly contagion in her hot and 
hurried breathing, she was taken away. 

Beneath the falling curtains of coarse green serge the 
beams of a New Year's sun drank in the last breath of the 
dead year, frozen into silver upon the window-panes, when, 
for the first time, Margery's eyes unclosed, and wandered, in 
dawning consciousness, around the sick ward to which she had 
been taken. Even the skeleton fingers, resting helpless upon 
her breast, were still of the same deep scarlet hue which 
burnt in a fiery flush upon her face ; but the crisis had past, 
— the violence of the disease had abated. The scarred and 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 17 

crimson skin was but the mark of tlie insidious disease which 
had stolen into her veins, and drank deep of the fountains of 
life and vigor. 

By the sick one's side stood a black-robed figure, with the 
serene, pale face of a Sister of Charity, looking out from 
beneath the close white cap. By her the soiled and tattered 
habiliments had been exchanged for those of comfort and 
cleanliness, — the tangled hair close shaven. Day and night 
she had watched beside her, — watchful in her care, and 
tender in her ways, as a mother with her child. Had age 
discolored the soft brown hair, dimmed the eyes' lustre ? Lay 
there in that heart a dull, aching void, in the place of per- 
ished joy? From bitter, haunting phantoms of the past 
sought she oblivion in fatiguing duties, fearless of the risk 
of loathsome disease? Had life's sun set? No, — not a 
shadow veiled its brightness ; warm and fruitful of good 
deeds, it shone upon her heart in its meridian radiance, 
nourishing a high and holy faith, — mercy and charity to all 
mankind. 

Young and fair, but no longer gay with the first exuberant 
life of youth, that shadowy form flitted through the city's 
byways, its crowded courts, reeking with pollution and mis- 
ery ; along the hospital corridors, to the weary beds of the 
sufiering and the lonely, bearing hope and comfort with its 
presence. 

" Drink, my child ! " — it was the same quiet voice which 
had lately sounded in her delirium ; and though the parched 
and quivering lips had not strength to give utterance to the 
first perplexity of returning consciousness, they closed in 
meek and grateful obedience over the draught held to her 
mouth. Gently she felt herself raised, the pillow shaken, the 
crushed linen smoothed about her, and then the quiet tones 
bade her sleep. " Sleep, little one, sleep and rest ! I will 
watch beside thee." 

But the wandering eyes of Margery dozed not, until grad- 
2=^ 



18 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

ually the soft light of her nurse's eyes became magnetic in 
their influence, and she slept that silent, dreamless sleep, 
bringing balm and healing in its waking. 

The broken, half-incoherent sentences which had fallen from 
Margery's lips during her illness had awoke in the sister's 
heart vague surmises of the existence of a purer, more intel- 
ligent inner life in the young prisoner than is usually found 
in one whose vagabond habits, the result of untutored pov- 
erty, had brought her, whether through strict or mistaken 
justice, to where she had found her. The expression of pro- 
found gratitude, even in that brief interlude of consciousness, 
shining from the child's eyes, added unconsciously to the duty 
of her profession, which enjoined upon her to withdraw from 
temptation and degradation, to the utmost of her ability, 
whosoever stood endangered. During the hours of that win- 
ter day, as she watched beside the child, the morning's desire 
ripened into a determination to spread the blessing of her 
protection over her, on her release from the confinement to 
which she had been subjected, — a determination which 
Margery's despair, on the necessary cessation of her visits, 
enforced. 

In one of the most fashionable portions of the city of New 
York stood the house which Rosa Evans called " papa's." 
Its proportions alone sufficed to speak it the home of afflu- 
ence ; but it was rich in its architectural adornments, and its 
balconies of carved and fretted stone-work looked out upon 
a garden, the length and breadth of which alone were a for- 
tune to the denizen of that land-pressed metropolis. That 
whole garden was affluent, from the beds rich in the florist's 
skill at a more genial season, to the cold, still mementos of 
more than one fruitful dream, dreamed in a foreign atelier. 
Bank, flower and statue, however, were alike snow-clad, ice- 
circled, by the winter's rigor. Even a wing of the conser- 
vatory was shrouded, with all the windows of the house, 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 19 

by blind and curtain ; not the faintest ray of the brilliant 
morning sun was suffered to penetrate to the interior. But 
all these closed avenues of light guarded neither the dreari- 
ness of empty rooms or the shadow of a great sorrow. 

A delicious, intoxicating draught of pleasure was quaffed 
within by youthful lips. Rays of amethyst light, streaming 
from golden chandeliers, vibrating to one of Strauss' waltzes, 
mocked the sunlight of the heavens without. 

Looking in upon the crowd, moving in butterfly plumage 
to the melody which stirred the fragrance from the flowers, 
and awoke a more than natural exhilaration of life, you would 
have fancied yourself in fairy-land, so diminutive was that 
graceful throng, so unlike the freshness and vivacity of those 
before you to the usual appearance of habitues of the ball-room. 

It was a morning ball, — a child's fete, — given in honor 
of the heiress Rosa Evans' twelfth birth-day. Everything 
had been done to give brilliancy to the affair, — to give joy 
to Rosa ; but life's first tangible sorrow lay heavy at her 
heart. She had been tempted to wrong, and had yielded to 
the tempter. Urged to falsehood, she had for the first time 
stained the purity of those childish lips, that she might shield 
from undue censure a deed springing out of the generous 
impulse of an affectionate heart, rather than the lips best 
loved, and consequently most feared, should chide in cold 
words. Owning no authority but that of her father, and habit- 
uated from long permission to indulge in the moment's im- 
pulse, she had not scrupled to cast over the shivering shoul- 
ders of the outcast her own costly mantle, for the first time 
worn that day. But the representation of her maid, Lizzie, 
who had suffered Rosa to go out without her, contrary to her 
instructions, placed the subject before the young heiress in an 
altogether different light. 

" What, Mr. Evans' present ! Papa's own beautiful, gen- 
erous gift, thrown away on a ragged beggar ! O, Miss Rosa ! 
how could you be so ungrateful ! " and the maid's voice and 



20 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

expression depicted far more consternation than she, in truth, 
experienced ; for Miss Rosa, in annoyance at her rebuke, was 
about to defend her act. " 0, Miss Rosa, darling, what will 
I do ? If I had not let you had your own way, and gone out 
with Mr. Mark, they could not have been angry with me ; but 
now poor Lizzie will be sent away from her darling young 
lady, and without anywhere to put her head ! " and she pre- 
tended to fall to sobbing and weeping bitterly, well knowing 
the girl's heart was never proof against tears. 

Rosa yielded, and Lizzie told her mamma that very night, 
in the presence of Mr. Evans, that Rosa's cloak had been 
taken from the carriage, where it had been left on their 
entering the saloon. 

Mark Allan was then absent, or possibly his knowledge 
might have thrown more light upon the transaction ; but he , 
was not present, and Margery's doom was sealed. 

Rosa had entered the breakfast-room, the following morn- 
ing, just as the lost mantle had been brought in from the 
police-ofifice, where it had been sought a half-hour previous, 
and claimed by Mr. Evans. She beheld the beautiful, glis- 
tening folds shaken out ; and a deeper color was upon her 
cheek than ever flushed it before, as she turned to the bird-cage 
swinging in the recess of the window, and fed its occupant 
with a handful of crumbs. She heard her father enter the 
room behind her, but she had not the courage to look up ; and 
then she heard that grave, serious voice speaking sternly of 
the increase of crime and vagrancy in the city. But, as he 
continued, all at once the color faded from Rosa's cheek ; 
above the loud singing of the bird she had heard the repeti- 
tion of Margery's sentence. With the exclamation of " O, 
papa, papa, Margery did not steal it ! " rising to her lips, 
nhe was turning to her father, when Mark Allan entered the 
room, and for a moment she hesitated. 

Mr. Evans entered into conversation with him concerning 
ether and important matters, and Rosa stood waiting until it 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 21 

should be terminated, and her voice should gain strength to 
address him ; but, instead of adding to her coui'age, time was 
rapidly subduing the first honest impulse ; faster and faster 
ebbed into her heart irresolution and fear ; until, strive as she 
would, from her lips there came no sound. Again and again 
remorse for the wrong she had done, in the absence of her 
father, led her to ardently desire to make to him her confes- 
sion and her atonement ; but always on the face of that still, 
reserved man, when he turned towards his child, was there so 
strong an expression of exultant pride, so little of winning 
tenderness of manner, which can alone secure a child's confi- 
dence, that she could not bring herself to say, " Papa, the 
poor beggar-girl, whom you are so harsh with, is innocent ; it 
is your own child who has deceived you." And thus no pass- 
ing joy, no holiday fete, could illume that dark plague-spot 
of memory gnawing remorsefully at her heart. 

Rosa had been dancing with Mark Allan, and, weary with 
the morning's exertions, stood leaning against the damask 
drapery, which, loosened from its confinement, swept fold on 
fold over the entrance to the conservatory. The slight, child- 
ish figure, in its white dress, covered with bright, warm buds 
and flowers, drooped languidly, and the young cheek burnt 
with a crimson so deep, that Mark Allan, looking upon her 
beauty rapturously with his artist eyes, said to her, 

" Ma belle Rosa Evans shall dance no more, or she will 
be ill, and we shall have no more birth-day fetes permitted 
us." 

" It won't make any difference to you, Cousin Mark, when 
you are away," answered the girl, sorrowfully, looking up with 
the brilliancy of those blue eyes dimmed by gathering tears. 
The next moment she gave a quick glance around, to see if any 
one had observed her, and darted beneath the curtain. 

Mark followed her so quickly, so noiselessly, that he had 
time to perceive her put up one hand with a motion of de- 
spairing sorrow, before she was aware that he had joined her. 



22 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

Through his reserve of manner, through the worldliness life had 
already crusted over the young man's heart, broke a deep, 
genuine emotion of pleasure. He caught the hand of Rosa 
as it fell, and the dimmed blue eyes looking up to his beheld 
them flashing a joyousness which she had never recognized 
before. 

" Does my little cousin, then, so grieve that I am going 
away ? And does she really think that it will matter not to 
me whether life be to her dark or bright? Keep it pure 
and bright, for my sake, little Rosa ; and when your cousin 
comes back, some future birth-day, he will show you how very 
much he does care." 

There was such an earnest music to Rosa's ear in the voice 
which addressed her, that it awoke at once the affectionate 
heart of the child. She had a vague idea of confiding her 
regret and its poignancy to her cousin ; but not now, when he 
had just bade her keep her life so pure and true, and was going 
away before time could prove to him how sincere she was. 
No, 0, no, she could not ! 

She looked up to meet his proffered kiss, and she knew it 
was a more loving caress than he had ever before given her. 

In that passing moment Mark Allan formed a resolve 
which he believed would be imperishable. It is true that it 
had had a vague form in his mind for months ; that again 
and again he had pictured to himself a remote vision of a 
time when just such a sweet presence should endear his future 
life. It would be his desire, and therefore attainable ; for 
Mark Allan rarely confessed himself disappointed. He did 
not pause to question himself, "Am I worthy of such as she? 
Shall I be worthy years hence, when time has added yet more 
temptation to a life which never yet has fought the hard 
battle between self and duty ? " No ; the childish love which 
he believed filled his young companion's heart with passionate 
sorrow at his departure should give itself in its maturer 
power, its woman's beauty, to him. 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 23 

The thought of Rosa as the heiress of all Mr. Evans' great 
wealth was but secondary with him then. He imagined 
her in her beauty welcoming his return ; the glow neither 
fluctuating or fading then, as now, in fragile childhood, but 
blossomed into the loveliness of perfect womanhood. 

He placed a spray of white rose-buds amid her golden 
curls, and as he did so said, 

" When I come home, ma belle^ they shall be orange- 
flowers, and fairy Kosa Evans shall take Mark Allan for her 
knight." 

Rosa's laugh mingled with his, and it was care-free and 
unconstrained, as though his words possessed no power to echo 
back upon her heart in after days. 

That afternoon Mark Allan sailed for England, for a long 
absence abroad. In the Aiden of an artist's dream he was to 
dwell, until from the grand old paintings in crumbling palaces 
and dim cathedrals he should have read those lessons of can- 
vas lore, which were to enrich his own visions of beauty and 
ambition. 

With the flowers drooping in her hair, and her rich dress 
crushed beneath her, lay Rosa upon the fauteuil within her 
mother's dressing-room, where she had thrown herself, weep- 
ing, with Mark's last " good-by." Worn out with excitement, 
she slept ; a feverish glow had dried her wet cheeks, and the 
breath came rapid and uneven from her lips ; but yet she 
slept on, while the firelight played with the dusk and creeping 
shadows of the evening-fall. 

Once or twice Lizzie, the flippant, artful nursery-maid, to 
whom Mrs. Evans resigned the charge of her child, went in 
and out of the room. Only too glad to be relieved from her 
attendance, she permitted the child to rest there undisturbed, 
while the fever, which had been quickening all day in her 
veins, burnt higher and higher. 

The maid heard the rising of the family from dinner, and 
stole hastily from a tete-a-tete with the footman in the hall. 



24 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

She had just time to rouse Rosa when the turning on of the 
gas in the brackets before the dressing-table filled the room 
with light. The child, half awakened, saw only her mother, 
in evening costume, ^standing before the mirror, twisting some 
ornaments in her hair ; the next moment she was hurried to 
her own apartment. 

" I wish mamma would come to me ; I want to see mamma 
before I go to bed, my head aches so badly, Lizzie ! " she 
begged. 

Her hand held her head, as in pain, and she stood upon the 
soft rug, in her long white night-dress, shivering before the 
fire, though her cheeks were burning, and her hands hot. 

" No, no, Miss Rosa ; don't think I am going bothering 
your mamma, when she is going out, because you choose to 
fancy yourself ill ; you are only tired of dancing, and so are 
we all, dancing attendance on you to-day. Go to bed, that 's 
a good girl, — come ! " 

More obedient and docile, from illness, than was her wont, 
Rosa obeyed, and the girl sat down by the fire ; but when 
Rosa, after tossing restlessly, fell asleep, Lizzie at once arose 
and went out, closing the door after her. 

" Mamma ! mamma ! " 

Moaned in pain and despair, that cry went echoing through 
those luxurious chambers, but no answer came to soothe it 
to rest. It fell on the echoing silence of the mother's distant 
chamber. There was the firelight, the great toilet-mirror, 
reflecting back the jewels in the unclosed casket beneath, and 
all the glistening appurtenances of a costly toilet ; but the 
dressing-gown lay upon the easy-chair before the fire, the 
room was tenantless, the mother was shining in her loveliness 
and rich attire in some brilliant drawing-room ; had she been 
within hearing, her blood would have chilled to the wildness 
of that cry. In the basement the servants held their revel 
and their liberty ; — they heard it not. 

The night-key of the master of the house admitted him. 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 25 

Louder and shriller came the voice, echoing down the stair- 
way. With a step fleet as in boyhood, he bounded forward 
in its direction. Now moaning, now shrieking wildly for her 
mother, lay his child there alone, mad with fever, deserted, 
stifling in the heated atmosphere, weird thoughts and phan- 
tom fancies pressing upon her brain. 

When Mrs. Evans returned, her child knew her not. 
She found the family physician with her, and there was an 
unusually thoughtful expression upon his countenance. 

The morrow's sun saw the house closed, as the day pre- 
vious ; but no gay children were tripping to gushing music in 
the rooms below. Silence and fear reigned in its stead, for 
there was deadly contagion in that presence which had then 
imparted pleasure to all. 

Ignorant of the duties of a sick room, trembling at the 
danger by herself incurred, but not wholly willing to yield 
that semblance of the afiection which she believed that she 
possessed for her child, Mrs. Evans vacillated between the sick 
room and her own, until her husband, perceiving the little 
benefit Rosa derived from her presence, advised her to leave 
her entirely to the care of the nurse. But he himself 
remained by her side, and in the shadow of the angel of 
death, whose presence all knew was near at hand, listened to 
the unconscious voice solving the mystery of a grief too 
profound to have been caused by Mark Allan's departure. 

" Margery! Margery ! " moaned Rosa, so sorrowfully and 
remorsefully, with such a wail of despair, that he knew her 
days of consciousness had been burdened by a woe he could 
not divine. But how chanced it that that woe had fallen on 
her, the child of his love, the beautiful recipient of iiis care, 
and he in ignorance of it ? Soon, however, the low-monned 
" Margery ! " with the sorrowful and but half-coherent self- 
accusations, revealed to him the truth. But, alas that in 
the place of that regret, which should have filled his whole 
soul with keenest pain, a coward fear and terror of his Severn 



26 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIIIF^SS. 

ity should have so crept up between himself and his child's 
confidence as to render her oblivious to truth and duty ! — 
alas ! I say, that in its place awoke only a sentiment of 
humiliation that a child of his should have feared to do right ; 
that anything belonging to him should have so far deviated 
from the pride, not from the purity, of integrity ! In a storm 
of injured dignity he went forth from the sick room with 
stern and bitter words to drive from his roof the ignorant 
minister to Rosa's weakness; but the ebbing, faint and low, 
of the vigor of that idol's life, led him back with despair at his 
heart, and a frenzied prayer to heaven for her life. 

Day after day hope lay but a feather's weight in the scale 
of life against despair ; but imperceptibly it grew, until they 
realized life again was quickening in those languid limbs. 
But the mother's words of thoughtless regret, in the very 
dawn of that heaven-petitioned life, told her child how poor 
a boon she considered the answer to their prayer, granted as 
it was with its outer glory dimmed. 

Rosa Evans lived, but the disease growing out of the con- 
tagion of the wronged outcast's presence had clasped with a 
more death-like grasp the inmate of the palace than of the 
prison. Rosa lived, but with the roses forever blanched 
upon her cheek, and a cloud veiling her beauty. 

Restitution the rich man would have made the condemned 
Margery from the abundance of his purse; but, shunning 
exposure of his child's honor, he waited for the expiration of 
her confinement and her release to liberty. But when the 
summer's affluence of flowers and autumn's golden days 
had been garnered into the treasury of bold December, and 
the weary prisoner's heart resigned itself to the passing away 
of those genial days which nature gave even to the child of 
poverty ; and the time for which Mr. Evans waited came 
slowly round to her who also waited, but not as he had done ; 
he found the day of atonement had been too long deferred, 
— Margery had disappeared, and the memory of his injustice 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 27 

nestled down in an obscure corner of that arrogant heart, to 
ripen in after time. 



CHAPTERII. 

" With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll, 
Wherein she reads, in melancholy letters. 
The cruel, fatal fact, that placed her soul 
And her young heart in fetters." 

Some six or seven years subsequent to the events recorded 
in the preceding chapter, seated alone in her chamber, Rosa 
Evans threw off the restraint which she had imposed upon 
herself during the day, and yielded to that same abandonment 
to every passing emotion which had characterized her child- 
hood. 

A letter had that day been received from Mark Alian, for 
the first time announcing his return. Time, in its lapse, had 
not alienated from Rosa the recollection of the wanderer. 
In the constant intercourse which he had maintained by letter 
with the family of his guardian, the child who had loved, and 
been loved by him in return, in his boyhood's home, had evi- 
dently not been forgotten in the artist's dream of ambition, 
manhood's hours of pleasure. 

To Rosa he had been suffered unchecked to address 
letters, which, if not those of an avowed lover, were intelli- 
gible as such to her ; and, like a star in her breast, waxing 
brighter with the dawn of early womanhood, gleamed his 
memory with her. But within the last year his letters had 
become briefer; there were no more glowing dreams, in 
which Rosa recognized herself as the actual of his ideal ; and 
finally they ceased altogether, while Rosa blushed and wept 
in secret over the gradual dissipation of those hopes which 
almost unconsciously she had suffered to spring into being. 
Now, however, the long-delayed letter came, and its contents 



28 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

were of her. He had been ill, and the languor attendant on 
convalescence had led him to defer writing; but now he 
spoke of home, and a yearning for old, familiar faces, which 
had fallen with a power irresistible upon him. x\gain 
and again Rosa read : " The memory of a pair of sunny eyes 
has kept warm in my heart the thoughts of an American 
home, and I long to renew my acquaintance with their 
glances ; for the restraint growing out of time and absence 
has so estranged my friend Rosa, that I can scarce discern a 
trace in this package of exquisitely-worded letters which lies 
before me of the gay, frank child with whom I parted long 
years ago." 

He knew not then the shadow which had fallen on that 
radiant face. No, — with the same coward weakness which 
had not suffered her to say to her father " I gave it to poor 
Margery," Rosa shrank from divesting Mark Allan of the 
memory of that haunting, childish beauty to which he clung. 
But now, with a cold chill of regret that she had not unde- 
ceived him, and for that destiny which she had been taught 
to mourn and succumb to, rather than surmount, she knew 
that he was coming back to behold the realization of that 
womanhood which he had pictured. 

From the portrait of that face which Mark had hung upon 
the wall of her mother's room before he left them, forever 
mocking with its brilliant coloring the pale shadow of what 
had once been its rivM, she had often beheld that mother 
turn dissatisfied and regretful ; — would it not also be thus 
with him ? 

Greatly had Mrs. Evans prided herself in her child's 
inheritance of beauty ; for in the regularity of those features, 
and the brilliancy of that complexion, she recognized attrac- 
tions which had secured for herself the position, which, as 
the wife of a millionnaire, she occupied in the fashionable 
world, — the only world she recognized. 

It had been nothing to her that that husband was twice her 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 29 

years, that between them there was nothing of similarity or 
congeniality of feeling. If aflfection had been named in that 
barter of youth and loveliness for age and wealth, it was but 
a mere desecration of its truth with an unmeaning form. To 
the woman it was a word of foreign import in the lesson of 
her life, and in the heart of the man it lay in dead letters 
beneath the dust of worldliness. 

If in some moment of e/iinid to Mrs. Evans' heart there 
came a passing query, as to what the finale of that life 
should be, when time had dimmed her eyes' light and her 
cheeks' bloom, and void and shadow lay alone in the place of 
love and peace, she would hush the questioning voice in the 
sinful prayer, " Let me then die ! " 

And Rosa Evans grew up listening to the ever-recurring 
moan over her misfortune, until life, health and fortune, 
seemed to her as dross in comparison with that which had 
been taken from her. No more, after that dreadful illness, 
did mamma gaze upon her with exultant eyes, as she listened 
to the loudly expressed admiration of her guests over her red 
cheeks ; and — harder yet to the clinging, craving heart of 
childhood — as she lingered by her side, longing after the old 
caressing manner, but too proud to make it known, no more 
did Mrs. Evans smooth her curls, calling her " fairy Rosa," 
and her " darling pet." 

But with Mr. Evans it was not so. Perhaps in his grow- 
ing age life seemed arid without that human love which, 
through the days of his self-sufficient manhood, he sought not 
nor wooed to his heart. In wide contradiction to that senti • 
ment which gave his name to her mother, he took his child 
to his heart more closely than before. They thought that in 
age he was losing that imperious desire that all things apper- 
taining to him should shine and dazzle that world, which to 
him, equally with his wife, was a most despotic sovereign ; 
but it was not so. That which had shattered the mother's 
ambitious hopes for her daughter, and alienated so much 



30 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

tenderness, he too had sorrowed for ; but it showed itself in a 
different way. Into Rosa's heart he sought to instil a pride 
of her position, as the heiress of his wealth, which should 
cover from her own eyes the wound to her vanity. He gave 
her, even in girlhood, unlimited command over his purse, and 
gratified her every whim. Always through life he remem- 
bered that Rosa had once feared to offend him, and in that 
fear of his severity had well-nigh died with remorse and 
anguish at her heart ; and most strenuously he sought to con- 
vince her how grievous had been the wrong which she had 
done to his affection. 

If but half those endeavors had been used to teach his child 
how dangerous to her purity and peace of mind had been that 
deviation from truth, out of which sprang a result so grievous 
to the unhappy Margery and her future happiness, that affec- 
tion might have blessed Rosa Evans' life from its years of 
childhood into serene old age. 

In society, Rosa Evans was the petted heiress, the haughty, 
wayward child of affluence, graceful in person and manners, 
apparently knowing no sorrow, enduring no care. But, with- 
drawn from all eyes, the untutored impulses, the uncontrolled 
passions, gave way to every emotion which desire created. 

Marriage, which to Mrs. Evans signified little more than an 
establishment, with liberty to indulge in every capricious 
whim, and involving the excitement and gayeties consequent 
upon a bridal, was to her a most desirable consummation of 
Rosa's girlhood. Some one would, of course, ere long, marry 
her daughter for the fortune which Mr. Evans would give his 
only child ; and the remembrance of Mark Allan's fancy for 
Rosa revived, with the sudden announcement of his intention 
to return, her old promise, given partly in jest and partly in 
earnest, that her daughter should at some future day become 
his wife. Mark had always been with her a favorite. The 
profound admiration which her beauty awoke in the breast of 
her husband's ward — a mere boy when she became Mrs. 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 81 

Evans — was repaid by herself by every indulgence in her 
power. 

Possibly there was more congeniality between the hand- 
some and matured young student, who made their house his 
home during the holidays, and the girlish, volatile belle, than 
between herself and her husband; certainly there was far 
more similarity of age. However it might have been, that 
favor of which Mrs. Evans was most prodigal brought Mark 
Allan, in the very onset of life, the intoxicating charm of that 
luxurious life, which his own small means apparently opened 
not to him. To the brilliant saloons in which she ever shone 
conspicuous she carried him with her. Pleased by the eager 
delight which she awoke, and dazzled by the glitter of society, 
he was blind then to the void of that home life, the barrenness 
of that fireside. 

When Mr. Evans would have pressed upon him the neces- 
sity of entering either upon a professional or mercantile life, 
60 earnestly did his wife combat that advice, and claim in- 
dulgence for the desire which Mark craved, but which his 
guardian deemed neither wise nor prudent, that she finally 
succeeded ; and, with his entire fortune in his purse, Mark 
Allan went to Europe, to work out those early dreams of 
youth to which a life of luxury had given a deeper tone. 
And Mrs. Evans had not been disappointed ; year after year 
there came more enthusiastic accounts of the young artist's 
success. 

For a season Mark Allan had cast off, as a cumbrous gar- 
ment, which fettered his genius, the indulgence which had 
enervated him ; with an insatiate desire to win himself a 
position amid the world's little circle of favored ones, he 
wrought out, of what were in truth the elements of genius, 
much of beauty. 

But a voice floating through his studio at Naples, from a 
neighboring conservatoire, entranced him with its melody. 
Day after day, at a certain hour, as the pupil of the con- 



6Z THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

servatoire went through her role, he threw aside his pencil and 
yielded himself to its witchery. Soon, from the group of 
idlers who always congregated in the vicinity to share the 
same enjoyment, he learned that it was Signora Beatrice 
whose voice awoke so much enthusiasm ; and ere long, kneel- 
ing in the cathedral, she was pointed out to him, with her 
head bowed and her hands crossed in Catholic devotion on her 
breast. A little while, and the American artist had a new 
sitter ; but day after day those sittings were prolonged, — 
prolonged until the dark splendor of Beatrice's eyes looked 
out from beneath the brow of every beautiful ideal creation 
of woman's face upon his canvas, — until the liquid, silvery 
tones, rising scarce above a whisper, said, firmly, *' Adieu, 
Signor, forever ! " and the delicious notes which had so stirred 
his imagination no more after that day thrilled his ear. 

Then his farewell to Italy was spoken. Naples lay behind 
him. 

Mark's poverty was no objection, as affairs stood, with Mrs. 
Evans. He was coming back rich in fame ; his celebrity 
would add eclat to their wealth. And with more interest 
than she had ever di*eamed of manifesting in her child's wel- 
fare, she superintended the arrangement of Bosa's toilet. 
Mark had arrived, as she had hoped, the day preceding the 
evening's brilliant party. 

Bosa Evans thoroughly comprehended the arrangement which 
prevented her going down to welcome their guest, in the brief 
space which intervened between the morning's unadorning 
costume and the airy dress which would display the graceful 
form, the evening's excitement which would tinge with color 
her pale cheek. 

And Mark Allan met her in the lighted drawing-room, with 
lier golden hair braided into more than its olden beauty about 
the perfect contour of that head which he had bound with 
budding roses. But he at once perceived the shadow which 
had fallen there, and which that dazzling toilet would fain 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 83 

have screened. Coward heart, worldly weakness, he at once 
read in Rosa Evans' eye ; and, with something very like a 
sigh of relief, he said to himself, " She has made only another 
woman of fashion ! " With this conclusion, he banished from 
his heart all regret for the wrong which he had determined to 
do that human heart. 

A continent lay between himself and the woman whom he 
loved ; between himself and the honorable indulgence of that 
love, lay a waste more than world wide, — poverty and self- 
sacrifice. To the demon of self, which had grown into a god 
within his breast, there was no sacrifice too costly ; and the 
very low and very firm voice had bade him " adieu forever." 

"When Mark Allan returns, he will tell you, little Rosa, 
how very much he does care whether your life be bright or 
otherwise." 

The voice of his young bride, tremulous with feeling, recall- 
ing to him these almost forgotten words in their bridal home, 
startled the ear upon which it fell. 

And that time has now come, Mark, she continued, softly, 
for the first time, in her emotion, casting aside that reserve 
and shyness which he had mistaken for a want of deep feel- 
ing ; and, looking upon those brightening eyes, that earnest 
countenance, he read a tenderness for which the simple 
courtesy of manner which he had intended to manifest towards 
her would never suffice. 

He strove to answer kindly those loving tones, but the 
spirit which he knew went not with them made them cold 
and hollow to himself. Even then, they chilled Rosa to 
silence ; but no doubt of his sincerity came over her. 



34 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 



CHAPTER III. 



« I might have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.'* 

Byeon. 



The fragrance was not all gone from Rosa's bridal bouquet 
before the gushing love of a heart peculiarly sensitive had 
been insensibly taught to repress any passionate demonstration 
of its tenderness ; before the bride had been taught that over 
that heart, which she had vainly dreamed her own, there fell 
a frequent sombre cloud, which the light of her smile might 
never seek to dissipate. But it gave her only a momentary 
pang, a passing disappointment ; for in society her husband 
was all that the most craving heart could desire ; and they 
were in society almost constantly during the gayeties subse- 
quent to their bridal. 

Gradually, however, as the excitement of that gay bridal 
passed away, and his wife's demands upon his affection 
became more earnest, Mark Allan roused himself with an 
icy heartlessness no one looking upon him could have believed 
he possessed, to chill Rosa's petulant, sorrowing heart to 
silence. 

One day he bade her remember that, in becoming a wife, 
she had voluntarily resigned all girlish affectation and weak- 
ness to, — but Rosa broke in upon his words sorrowfully, 
reproachfully. 

"Affectation, Mark!" 

" Ay," he answered, irritated by a cause of which his com- 
panion was then ignorant ; " are you always so very truthful 
as to be indignant at the term, Mrs. Allan ? " 

Rosa's very brow flushed, as he spoke, with so deep a color 
as to be painful in its intensity, and at once she left his side. 

She did not know that Mark was flushed with an unnatural 
excitement; that the champagne which, dancing in his glass at 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 35 

dinner, had been of late too freely taken, had robbed his 
words of courtesy even to her ; but it was so. There were 
haunting memories in his brain, from which there was no 
escape but in the blinding cup. 

From that day she never again sought to win him by either 
conciliating attention or reproachful word. " He has no faith 
in me," she whispered to herself, sadly ; " he loves me not, as 
I have believed ; " but, too proud to call attention to her grief, 
she sought oblivion in the whirl of a gay life. 

Among numerous other paintings which he had brought 
with him from Europe, was one but half finished. Whenever 
that restlessness of spirit, which he could not otherwise as- 
suage, came upon him, shutting himself up in his studio, he 
would work upon this painting for days without rest. It was 
a sketch of some picturesque Italian ruins ; and a wandering 
niinstrel-girl playing on a guitar. But that girl might have 
sat in state within those palace walls ere they had crumbled 
into dust, so superbly haughty was the carriage of the head, 
lifted with its radiant eyes to the heaven above, which, with 
all its southern hue and splendor, was not half so deliciously 
soft and sunny as the smile of mingled sweetness and sadness 
upon her lip. 

Rosa had already been a wife many months when the ap- 
pearance in New York was first announced of the young 
debutante, with whose success all southern Europe then 
rung. 

Of late she had been but little into society, and the chas- 
tened smile which some concealed joyousness woke upon her 
face had given those soft, blue eyes, those pale, fair linea- 
ments, a new and winning charm. And that dawning hope 
was reflected in Mark's breast by a gleam of its original 
brightness. Though he shut himself up more closely in his 
studio in consequence, he had given up, in a measure, the too 
free use of wine, in which he had for a season indulged, and 
his manner had regained all of its old courtesy ; something 



36 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

more of tenderness than he had ever previously manifested 
towards her, whose old light-heartedness came rushing back 
with the change, and, at times, won him to a better realization 
of the indissoluble bond between them. 

He had consented, without a question or a comment, when 
Rosa had requested him to accompany her to the opera in the 
evening ; and, with a heart unusually light, she had flitted in 
and out of the studio which had been fitted up for him in 
their own house, — now with light words striving to win him 
from his grave mood, and now bending over his shoulder, and 
launching into warm and passionate encomiums on the beauty 
which grew at every touch beneath his hand. He scarcely 
heard her words, he paid her little heed, until, suddenly bend- 
ing forward, and shading the dark eyes of the girl in the 
painting from his view, she said, 

" You will quite forget your pale little wife in the glory of 
la belle minstrel's eyes." 

With a quick, startled expression, as though he would have 
detected some deeper meaning than her words expressed, he 
looked up ; but he met only a smile of pleasant interest, fading 
into doubt lest she should have angered him. 

" Signor Mark, you have kept me waiting these ten minutes 
past." 

The half-gay, half-impatient tones of his wife's voice fell 
upon the artist's ear, rousing him from a revery, which the 
rustle of silken drapery had not broken with her entrance. 
The sun had set as the last touch of his brush fell caressingly 
upon the canvas before him, and with the shadows of the fall- 
ing night fell oblivion to the present upon his soul, bringing 
memories of the olden time. 

From the crowded house, with its array of beauty and 
fashion, the eyes of the wife wandered with furtive glances to 
the face of her husband. In that bright light she fancied that 
he looked older than she had ever before thought him ; there 
was an unusual pallor on his check, and his lip was com- 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 37 

pressed and stern. He did not look ill in health, but as 
though oppressed by some great weariness of mind. Per- 
chance, at that moment, he was questioning himself if the 
sacrifice of his love to the desire to surround himself by the 
luxurious appurtenances of wealth had, in its consumma- 
tion, crowned his days with content; if the sacrifice of her 
whose young heart had been lured into a desolate bondage by 
the marriage vows, in the echo of which the voice whose low 
accents had won her forever had forever ceased, was without 
avail. And one suffering, tortured heart in another's bosom 
— was that also but a bubble in his path ? 

Whatever might have been the questioning which self put 
to self in that hour, it was broken by the plaudits of the 
crowd and the rising of the curtain ; and, bending forward, 
he beheld a woman's form, radiant in her gay robes, her 
flower-wreathed hair ; and through the lights above the bended 
heads he met the resplendent eyes of the minstrel-girl. 

As it had echoed through his studio at Naples, so floated 
out that magnificent voice in the very sweetest, saddest 
cadences of love and despair, while its echoes fell down and 
mingled with the surging moan of the tumult within his breast, 
raging as it had done when that low and sad voice had 
bade him " go." Mechanically he answered in the affirmative, 
when a gentleman by his side asked if he had seen Signora 
Beatrice when abroad. 

" Was she then upon the stage ? " 

" No, she was in San Carlo," was the brief rejoinder ; and 
liosa heard no more. 

But she beheld the sudden flush of intense emotion succeed 
the late pallor of his cheek ; his burning glance riveted upon 
the counterpart of that minstrel-girl, whose ideal beauty she 
had deemed he worshipped but as the finest consummation of 
his artistic talent ; and the rigidity of despair settled down 
upon the pale young face by his side» 

" Take me home, — I am ill, — I am faint ! " she whispered, 
4 



38 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

hoarsely ; but he heard her not. Beatrice was singing him 
back to Italy, and lower, lower sank the drooping head, before 
which the lights, the crowd, were fading into darkness. The 
confusion attendant on the rising of their party, as Rosa was 
carried out, drew the attention of the house upon them, and 
with it the glance of the cantatrice. With his face flushed by 
tumultuous emotions, Mark Allan stood erect ; and, resting on . 
his shoulder as he moved out with his unconscious wife, lay 
the golden head, and still, white face ; and then the rising of 
the crowd with fresh acclamations, more rapturous applause, 
died away upon their ears. 

" Go back, — it was the heat ; I am better now ! " with a 
strange self-command over herself, Rosa said to him, as he 
stood beside the carriage in which he had placed her, entirely 
restored to consciousness by the cool evening air. 

The voice which bade him return trembled not ; but, had the 
light fallen upon her face, the blanched cheek and look of 
keen misery would have startled him. The anguish which her 
voice concealed was but too legibly stamped thereon ; and, 
drawing back into the furthest corner, she put aside the hand 
which rested hesitatingly upon the carriage door, and again 
repeated he had better go. He obeyed her ; but the chill of 
those icy fingers lay yet upon his own burning hand, long after 
he stood again in the presence of the cantatrice. 

With a rapid step the wife passed from the carriage to the 
studio of her husband. There was no light therein but that 
of the candle which she had caught hastily up in the hall ; 
but even in that dim light, as she held it above the painting, 
yet damp beneath the lingering caress of Mark Allan's last 
touch, there was no mistaking the likeness he had there por- 
trayed. Long Rosa gazed, and once she lifted her hand 
menacingly towards the easel, as though she would have 
dashed aside the poor canvas, with its rich and glowing 
beauty mocking her despair; but on the transparent little 
hand there gleamed a golden circlet, and the angry, passion- 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 39 

ate impulse was lost in the emotion that drew that hand to 
her heart. 

*' And, with the white hands tightly pressed 
On a double pulse beneath her breast," 

she stood, with an expression of unutterable woe, looking 
round on the many ideal creations of the artist ; and that 
which she had scarcely ever heeded before, struck her very 
forcibly now, and with keenest pain, — either in feature or 
expression, in every painting about her was there some 
trace of that strange beauty which had haunted his every 
dream. 

The engagement of the prima donna was verging to a con- 
clusion. Weeks, months, she had been in New York; but 
since that first night Kosa had never beheld her. She pro- 
fessed herself unable to go out, and her pale cheek confirmed 
her words. 

Never once did the moan of her misery, since the revela- 
tion of that night, make itself known to human ear. 

From the time of his marriage, Mark had given up what 
he called professional servitude ; but he often beguiled the 
tedium of his hours of leisure, or his days of restlessness, by 
an occasional portraiture of some chance-attracted face. 

Once more, as in his southern atelier, there sat before his 
easel a presence which thrilled him with its power. But the 
long lashes drooped not, as in other days, over eyes whose 
rays would brighten in his presence. The complexion, then 
vivid or pale with emotion, now neither paled nor deepened 
beneath the fire which burned at intervals in the glance of 
Mark. 

There was now no tremulous note mingling with the enthu- 
siasm with which she spoke of Italy to the bevy of admirers 
who followed her to the artist's studio. Had she ceased to 
remember when, lingering on the shores of Naples, and watch- 
ing the declining day, with her dark curls shading the rich 
bloom of her cheek, and the brightness of life's first earnest 



40 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

dream irradiating every corner of that buoyant heart, 
the setting sun suddenly had fallen upon a blighted spirit, 
dead hopes, — nature smiling on a wreck of all that makes 
life beautiful? One had stood by her side, and wooed 
her, in passionate tones, to love ; but there fell a sudden doubt 
upon her heart, — a chilling belief, and of that moment's 
birth, — that a barrier rose between love and honor. 

" By the name which hallows and endears affection. Sig- 
ner?" 

He hesitated ; he turned aside, and she gave him no time 
for subtle, hypocritical answer ; only the burning flush, paling 
to the hue of death, and the low voice which said " Adieu, 
forever ! " were given to memory. 

Morning after morning a gay group gathered around the 
artist's easel, and always the same face of haughty repose 
turned upon him. Again and again she conversed freely of 
their old acquaintance in Italy ; but never by word or glance 
could he perceive that the faintest memory of that scene upon 
the shores of Naples lingered yet in her recollection. 

Once only did the color vary upon her cheek ; and then 
Mark Allan, believing he had discovered the talisman which 
would throw open to his baffled gaze the heart which pride 
had closed upon him, brought down upon his wife's bowed 
head the consummation of that woe which in solitude she 
vainly shunned. 

Beatrice was to give the artist but one more sitting ; the 
portraiture of that superb face was nearly completed, when 
all at once upon the gay converse of those surrounding her 
fell a voice which caused her to rise from her seat, and con- 
front the speaker with an impulse irresistible. Whatever 
emotion it was that awoke so deep a crimson upon her cheek, 
and flashed with such bitter scorn upon the gray-haired old 
man before her, it at once arrested the attention of Mark, by 
whom she was alone observed ; but the inference which he 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 41 

drew from her sudden emotion was widely at variance with 
the truth. 

In the face of Mr. Evans, she recognized one whose 
deed had cast the heaviest shadow upon her youth ; in those 
tones she heard once more the voice which had rung the alarum 
of deadly despair in her ear. 

An impulse which he did not seek to resist led Mark Allan 
to desire a more distinct recognition of the emotion which the 
presence of the father of her rival had evidently stung from 
its repose in the heart of her before him. What mattered it 
to him that his words of forbidden tenderness stabbed the 
heart of that proud, unhappy being, whose woman's pride had 
closed, with an untrembling hand, her wounds from every 
human eye, so that he but soothed the wound which his love 
and pride had alike received, in the balm of Beatrice's final 
retraction of those parting words, that subsequent proud 
demeanor ? 

One after another he dismissed his guests, until, by her 
side once more, for the first time since they had met he stood 
alone. 

In the mellow light shining from above upon her head sat 
Beatrice, in the luxurious chamber which he had of late con- 
secrated to his artist life. She was in the act of gathering 
her shawl about her to depart. He grasped her hand pas- 
sionately, and the dark beauty of those eyes, which she had 
taught to droop beneath no human gaze, was upon him, — 
those eyes beneath which he had felt his spirit quail, the 
words ebbing to his lip grow cold and mute. But now he 
was blind to their austerity. A light had penetrated to his 
brain, which had ignited there all the mad, delirious passion 
which had been growing with her presence. The weight of 
his marriage vows lay in his memory but as a cold obligation 
towards society, which selfishness, in its maturer, unchecked 
growth, now spurned in the delirium of a will and passibn 
never conquered. 

4^ 



42 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIEESS. 

" Beatrice, I am with you once more ; the world and its 
forms no longer divide us ! You would have hidden your soul 
from my penetration, for in your love there was despair; but 
the moment's anguish has dispelled the illusion you sought to 
create, and heart to heart reveals itself in nature's irresistible 
abandonment to the spirit's impulse. Once you deemed you 
had cause to doubt my sincerity ; thus I throw aside the bond 
which binds me to all the man of the world holds of value, and 
make my world, my heaven, in you ! " 

And 'he would have sealed the mad compact of his sin upon 
the brow of Beatrice ; but she drew back, with a shudder, from 
the contact of those burning lips, and looking upon him still 
with those strange bright eyes, she spoke. 

" As Beatrice listened to you in silence on the shores of 
Naples, so has she now. Then this heart beat like the wing 
of a prisoned bird against my bosom; now there awakens 
to your words scarce one throbbing pulse. Then the singing- 
girl of San Carlo loved as Mark Allan has never yet in his 
wildest dream conceived ; but between herself and the honor- 
able existence of that love rose the world's high barrier — 
poverty — and a name over which fell the world's shadow ; 
although that shadow had grown out of that over which she 
had neither knowledge nor control. Listen, now, Mark 
Allan, while I tell you I cast back the imputation which you 
would throw alike upon my truth and my dignity ! Listen, 
and know, before you charge her again with false accusation, 
if the woman who stands before you has not true cause and 
right to that emotion which awoke indignant within her breast, 
in the presence of her childhood's bitterest oppressor. 

" Recall to memory — if, alas! it be not too frequent an 
occurrence of pleasure to the prosperous and the opulent — 
a night of midwinter's deepest rigor, when the chiming of 
vesper bells where the cross guards the sanctuary, and the 
music of glad voices which arose from the rich man's fireside, 
commemorated the rising of Gethsemane's star ; when the 



THE OUTCAST AND TUE HEIRESS. 43 

carriages of rich owners drew up, with their light-hearted occu- 
pants, before the long row of brilliant, tempting windows ; when 
from the most luxuriant of them all stepped forth one whom 
already life had taught to be mute and deaf to unattractive 
misery, — how protectingly, how tenderly he led the golden- 
haired child by his side, from the moan of the starving ! I 
see your memory aids you to that recollection. Well, Mark 
Allan, — for all would say it was well for her, — look upon 
the consummation of that childhood ! Behold the pariah, 
the outcast, once more, in the prima donna of San Carlo ! 

" You were charitable to her then ; you are alike charita- 
ble to her now ; but," — and she drew herself grandly up 
before that abashed presence, — " she will not suffer herself 
to remain to you forever indebted. As Margery spurned 
your charity then, so Beatrice now spurns the proffer of your 
dishonorable love ! Thus from your canvas she effaces the 
personation of a face of which she would counsel you to utter 
forgetfulness ; " and, lifting a brush by her side, with bitter, 
reckless haste, which he had no power to interrupt, she obliter- 
ated the portraiture of herself from his easel. 

She beheld the color come and go, and leave the quivering 
lips of Mark like marble; and the promptings of a noble 
heart rose up with a sudden remorse, at leaving so much 
misery as his countenance portrayed, with but bitterness and 
added misery in her parting words. " She was but a child, 
and knew not what she did," she said to herself, as for a 
. moment she stood with averted face. Then a quick, earnest 
impulse seized upon her, and she approached Mark. 

" Do not think, hereafter, when you recall me, that you 
robbed a careless, dreamy youth of its sunshine, — a joyous, 
brilliant womanhood of its peace ; for I would not have you 
hereafter suffer undue remorse for the wrong which you may 
think that you have done Beatrice. That youth knew neither 
sunshine nor dreams, until, for a brief season, you called them 
into being. Had this womanhood known no memory of those 



44 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

dreams, there would have been but little in its blank existence 
to be recalled. If you have disenchanted me of love, without 
you I had never known the enchantment. In His mercy, God 
has strengthened a weak human heart to resist the temptation 
of that sin which you have committed ; and you have but the 
desire, not the deed, to answer for to Him. For any and all 
wrong in an uncontrolled passion you have done me, I forgive 
you. To the golden-haired Rosa say Margery forgives, in re- 
membrance of the first words spoken in kindly sympathy to the 
unhappy outcast, the bitter wrong done in the name which 
that outcast had blessed in her grateful love. And 0, Mark 
Allan ! if that gay child has grown into an unhappy wife, go, 
I beseech thee, and say to her, * I have sinned against thee, 
in my weakness ; strong in my penitence, I dare make my 
confession, and seek of thee absolution, next to my God.' " 

She had thrown back the clustering hair from her face as 
she spoke ; and as she now stood, her arms folded mournfully, 
that beautiful countenance no longer averted, or passionless 
beneath the control of a proud, strong will, he for the first 
time saw that those full, white lids crushed great tears beneath 
them. Humiliation, angry bitterness, were all forgotten by 
Mark Allan. He roused himself with a sudden effort. The 
quick movement of his upraised hand was eloquent in its mo- 
tion ; words could not have better interpreted the giant com- 
bat between the earnest resolve for good, and the long ruling 
passion within his breast. With the expression of sorrow, of 
commiseration, on the face of her who had suffered so proudly, 
who forgave so nobly, instantaneously there leaped into his 
breast that innate nobility always adherent to the human heart; 
that immortal purity of soul, the transmission from God to his 
children of virtue, always existing, however unfortunate or 
pitiable may be its possessor, beneath the accumulation of 
evil passions, fed into vast strength by that weakness to which 
all human hearts are prone. 

Hark ! ho was speaking, — not as Mark Allan had ever 
spoken before. 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 45 

" Beatrice, you have dispelled the curse of my life ; you 
have taught me the meagreness of that which I have dese- 
crated by the name of affection. There has been no love, for 
there has been no purity, in my heart. Your resolution is 
stern, your rebuke is bitter ; but you have divested a life of 
its pitiable illusions ; self knows its littleness, — its arrogance 
will never more offend." 

" I would not leave you unhappy," said Beatrice, as she 
gathered her shawl again about her to depart, pressing back 
the tears which sprung to her eyes ; but with a strange pleas- 
ure in the midst of her pain, caused by this evidence of the 
sacrifice of his pride to truth. 

" Leave me not in utter disbelief of my present sincerity ! 
Add not to the shame which I confess to you the sting of 
your own contempt, Beatrice ! " 

She grasped his arm, in the eagerness of the impulse in 
which she spoke. 

" There was no faith in the past, like the present ; there 
was no hope in the future, like that I have in thee now." 

One sweet, hopeful smile fell cheeringly down upon his 
heart, and Beatrice was gone. 



" Will he never come ? Will he never look upon her ? " 

It was a faint and trembling voice which broke upon the 
silence of that darkened chamber, in which only a woman's 
form glided about with subdued and cautious step. 

" Give me more light to look upon her ! I cannot see 
her distinctly ; the shadows fall so heavy beneath these 
curtains." 

And, in obedience to that same low voice, the attendant 
in the chamber suffered a deeper ray of light to penetrate to 
the dim atmosphere ; and the young mother raised herself 
feebly from her pillow, gazing rapturously upon the tiny lin- 
eaments around which fell her own golden hair. With the 



46 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

increase of ligHt, the child opened its eyes, and Rosa saw that 
they were large, dark and familiar in their strange beauty, as 
they fixed themselves wonderingly upon that ray of light. 
As she gazed, her hand pressed itself in the old way to her 
heart, and she buried her face languidly in her pillow. 

The sun which had risen on the dawning of that -child's life 
rode high in the meridian, as it, for the first time, was cradled 
into living rest upon her bosom, and in its little face she 
strove to solve the enigma of its future destiny. Alas ! un- 
happy Rosa ! you deemed beauty then love's sovereign seal. 
If so, where was the glorious smile, the perfect symmetry of 
Beatrice's matchless face, and her isolated life ? Where the 
bloom on your own mother's cheek, — her arid, wasted life ? 
" Give her beauty, that she may be beloved ! " prayed the 
mother ; but her lip moved not to the burden of " keep her 
from temptation ! " 

" Will he never come ? " she questioned again, as the hour 
wore on, and still Mark came not ; and they knew then it was 
better that she should know the truth. He was ill ; he could 
not come. That was better than if he cared not ; — this last 
Rosa could not endure. - 

Over and over she questioned them if her child was not 
lovelier in its baby beauty than other children ; and they 
smiled at what seemed the solicitous pride of the young 
mother, as they answered in the affirmative. " And if she 
grows in beauty in his absence, she will be lovelier when 
Mark sees her," the mother whispered to herself ; and they 
wondered that her interest in her new-born child should make 
her so forgetful of her husband's danger. 

The day came at last on which father, mother and child, 
were to be united. Still in the heart of Rosa lay the 
memory of the charm with which the cantatrice had enthralled 
her husband's heart ; but a proud, delicious triumph in her 
child's power vibrated to every thought of Beatrice. The 
^.doring worshipper of the beautiful would find himself more 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 47 

and more attracted bj the daily-increasing beauty of his 
child's being, revenging, as it were, her mother's wrong. 

With glistening eyes she beheld those fragile limbs, so 
rarely-modelled in infancy, robed in the embroidered dress, 
enveloped in costly laces ; and she laid it caressingly down to 
rest upon her own wildly-palpitating bosom, as she waited the 
coming of its father. What to him would be the memory of 
syren or songstress, when that sunny face nestled to his heart, 
a shield against all intruders in the sanctuary of mother and 
child ? Hark ! by the rising flush upon her cheek, he is at 
hand. 

The languor of long illness weighs upon the old firm and 
buoyant tread ; — or, can it be but Mr. Evans, who seeks her 
presence, — the gray-haired, tremulous old man, whose hand 
wanders around the knob of that door, closed yet against 
them all ? It opens slowly ; he stands upon the threshold, — 
Mark, her husband ! But a nameless dread paralyzes the 
form which seeks to rise with its proud burden gathered to 
its breast ; the rapturous smile of welcome changes to a mute 
glance of miserable inquiry. 

He hears her hurried breath, the bursting sob of terror ; 
and an expression of unutterable sadness is visible upon his 
haggard face, as he questions, 

" Are you by the window, Rosa ? " 

" By the window, in the sunlight. 0, Mark, do you not 
see me ? " 

With a step that vainly spurns at caution, he approaches 
her; the tall figure, emaciated by long suffering, towering 
with tenacious stateliness above the wandering, feeble step. He 
will not yield one inch of that old and haughty carriage of 
his person ; he will not sufier himself to accept support or aid 
in his midnight way. 

" Mark," sobs the voice at the window ; for a marble form 
intercepts his passage ; the radiant face of hope smiling up 
to the poor, blind eyes that see her not. But the warning 



48 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

comes too late ; the cold form of the statue meets his touch, 
his cheek grows red, his wan lip quivers. 

" It is but a little hand, but very strong, 0, my husband, 
in the love which the ring you placed thereon symbolizes ! " 

Was it his poor, deserted wife, — the childish, shy Rosa, 

— who spoke to him in such tones of love and strength, — who 
led him to the great arm-chair in which she herself sat, and, 
bending down her lips to his h^ollow cheek, with the warm kiss 
which fell thereon, whispered, in tones which echoed through 
his innermost being, 

" Thy child, God's gift to me, is on my bosom. Will you 
not take it to your own ? " 

And, responsive to the sigh which answered, she laid it there, 
and it smiled faintly up at the worn face bent above it ; and 
thus Mark Allan received his child ! Thus Rosa beheld the 
shadow which lay between her husband and the recognition 
of its beauty, and to her heart there came a wiser, holier 
knowledge of the divine attributes of love. 

" It was easier to learn it from yourself than from other 
lips, Mark! for in the revelation of your suffering there came 
even out of that sorrow a more precious conviction, that I 
might henceforth be of use to you, helping you to endure it," 
answered Rosa, when Mark had told her all. 

How it came upon him all at once, the sharp, agonizing 
realization of that fear which had lain for weeks in his brain, 

— of that sudden pain, which, burning beneath his lids, had 
left, with its gradual cessation, but thick gloom, impenetrable 
darkness ; and of the stubborn pride which had willed that he 
alone, the sufferer, should make known to her his suffering, 
and Rosa had answered him. 

Months have glided onward into the past, and a shadowed 
calm rests upon the household of Mark Allan. Those 
shadows must linger now always in life about his foot- 
steps, — for with that exceeding love and strength, mani- 
fested by the mother of his child in his hour of human weak- 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 49 

ness, there awoke an ineffable and grateful tenderness. 
Reverently me ory guarded the recollection of Beatrice, with 
stern faithfulness subduing the manifestatiorLof that forbidden 
tenderness, to which it were false to honor and duty to yield. 
But that affection which seeks to feed the hunger of its hope- 
lessness neither on the present nor the future, living only on 
the memory of the dead past, hidden from all mortal eyes, 
dwelt yet in the breast of Mark. For love there is no 
death ; of immortal birth, it is of life immortal. 

When Mark Allan had said to Beatrice, in the profundity 
of his humiliation and self-accusation, " There has been no 
love, for there has been no purity, in my heart towards you," 
he spoke truly : but even then he realized how strong, how 
all-pervading, was the emotion which awoke, purified by the 
fiery ordeal to which the stern, just accusation of Beatrice 
subjected him. 

And a shadow, of which he knows not, hovers also about 
the foot-steps of his young wife. It steals cold between her- 
self and the child upon her bosom ; and in vain she shuts 
her eyes to its sombre gloom, — it will not leave her. 

Close it presses in the dark night, and in the dawning day, 
which breaks upon her, with her thin white hands, circled by its 
golden band, lying faint upon her heart. But her lips seal 
themselves in strong resolve over the fear which is upon her. 

Mark is going away. He has consulted an oculist of for- 
eign eminence, and his answer has awakened strong hope in 
his heart. In Germany he seeks restoration to light, and in 
the buoyancy of his heart he takes his child to his knee, and 
speaks, in a clear, joyous voice, of the blessed hour of his 
return. And in all the gay enjoyments, the tranquil happi- 
ness, which those days of reunion bring sunnily to the poor 
blind one in the far future, Bosa hears herself included with 
a tender, prominent care, as in silent atonement of t'.ie past's 
abandonment. But she steadies her voice, to ans'ver always 
in the same quiet tones the oft-recurring question, " Tell me, 



50 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

Rosa, has our child her mother's eyes?" with " They are like 
only to those of the minstrel-girl in your studio ! " and there 
is a misty sadness in her own blue orbs, as unconsciously 
Mark draws the little one closer to his breast. 

But still the low voice cheers the invalid on his way with 
the blessing of her hopeful words, until the final parting 
passes, with the waning of the early autumn days. Over the 
blue Atlantic shines Hope's alluring star, warming with its 
rays the once more buoyant heart of Mark ; and, looking 
backward with wistful tenderness towards her helpless child, 
Rosa turns her glance to the home of earth's weary pilgrim. 



CHAPTER IV 



" Thus the solemn calm, enzoning 
Life's wild tumult, shall be thine ; 
And thy trust, in love atoning. 
Lift thee to the life divine." 

Sarah H. Whitman. 

Winter's frosts and winter's snows lie upon the dreary 
bosom of the north ; but the heart of the great city thrills 
warmly to the song of the gay cantatrice gushing back upon 
its ear. 

Over the waters come frequent cheering bulletins from the 
invalid, and, with their glad tidings, stills the echo of the 
applause which greets the presence of the queen of song. 
But the old troubled look comes not back again to Rosa's 
face ; she only murmurs a softer lullaby to her child, holds it 
closer to her bosom. 

And now, as the rigor of the winter wanes, around the 
circle from which the presence of the smiling bride had been 
long withdrawn goes a low, half-audible whisper, as though 
all shrank from the recognition of such a doom for youth and 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 51 

beauty. It mingles with the adulation proffered to Beatrice, 
and she sighs more profoundly, with a deeper sadness than the 
rest. 

Joy, O wanderer ! who never thought again through 
those budding trees to look upon the fruit enshrined in the 
sanctuary of home, — mother and child ! Through the long 
avenue he sees the slender columns, the curtained casements. 
On, coachman, on ! With those eyes undimmed, except by an 
emotion deep and true, Mark would look once more upon his 
household. Silence ! silence ! the returned would announce 
himself. 

No, not from the old familiar chamber, not from the sunny 
breakfast-room, comes the liquid laugh of childhood ; from 
the long-closed atelier it welcomes him. There sits Rosa, in 
sweet, wife-like approval to her child, proudly revealing the 
beautiful creations of its father's genius. The wife hears not 
the opening door ; she sees not the shadow which falls upon 
the sunlit floor ; but the fairy tottering beside her knee draws 
closer to the young mother, and, bowing its smiling face to 
the folds of her dress, gazes shyly up, with those strange, dark, 
beautiful eyes. 

As the sunlight had streamed over Beatrice, so fell the 
full, rich beams of morning down upon the mother and her 
child. It fell over the golden locks, but the father beheld not 
the face which it illumined; that was turned towards the paint- 
ing of the Italian ruins, and the minstrel-girl ; and the voice 
which Rosa believed fell only upon the ear of the All-loving, 
and the unconscious child, was audible to him. 

•' And if, Father, I may never more behold him, suffer 
the love, which may not die, to minister to his future 
peace ! " 

"Rosa, beloved wife ! " 

She started ! Those accents, tremulous as her own, brought 
the red torrent to her cheek, and sent it flooding back tumult- 
uous to her heart, — that heart over which folded her hand 



52 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

witk a moan of pain, which even the rapturous joy of the 
moment could not repress ; and through the confused, strug- 
gling emotions of tenderness and strange terror, the truth 
dawned in her husband's heart. 

He had returned, in the renewed vigor of manhood, with a 
tender memory of the love which had lighted his days of 
darkness, eager to lay the residue of his happiness at her feet ; 
and there, in her unwaning youth, — the superhuman beauty 
of a fast-approaching immortal life softening the once gay 
blue eyes, and radiating into angelic loveliness over the pale, 
thin face, — she sat, pointing out in Death's true revelation of 
all things the wound in her breast. 

" Look up, look up, darling Rosa, and pardon the wrong 
long deplored, long wept, by Mark ! " But she only pointed to 
the child, sitting still and motionless beside her, and he took 
it to his breast. It nestled there, still turning its bright, 
smiling eyes upon its mother, while with an expression of un- 
filthomable joy Kosa's head fell languidly back, with gently- 
closed eyes, upon the cushions of the chair. 

But it was the sleep of eternity — the lips, too faint to 
answer Mark's despairing words, parted never more. 

Amid Bosa's papers, shortly after her decease, Mark found 
the following letter, addressed by her to himself, and written 
but a few days prior to his return : 

"0, Mark, my beloved husband, when you receive this 
first and last confession, which. Had I not been prevented by 
the infirmity of my life (the fear of lessening in any degree 
that human tenderness which I have craved unto idolatry), I 
should have made you with my own lips long ago, I shall 
have ceased to be. All along I have said, in my prayer to 
God, Sufier me but to live to instil into his heart how deep is 
the desire of his child's dying mother that he will give to her 
darling a wiser guide to guard her to womanhood. But the 
warning voice whispers more and more audibly, with the 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 53 

day's decline, and in the solemn silence of the night, ' Make 
ready, young mother, to surrender up thy maternal guardian- 
ship, for the future affinity between thy freed spirit in the 
life immortal and thy child on earth,' and bids me say how 
fervent is the trust, the desire, I leave to you. 

" Do you remember, Mark, how, when I was still a little 
child, I went out with you, one cold Christmas eve, to make 
a few trifling childish purchases ? It was just before you went 
away, and perhaps you will be able to recall it. That night 
a child accosted us, whom you repulsed; and, fearing to 
ofiend you, I framed some errand by which to rid myself 
of your presence, that unrestrained I might yield to the im- 
pulse which drew me towards her. While you were absent 
from me, in my haste to express my sympathy, in childish ig- 
norance and thoughtlessness I gave her my mantle. It was a 
new and costly gift of papa's. My nurse affected or experi- 
enced great fear lest blame should fall upon her; and, in 
answer to her tears, I suffered it to be supposed it had been 
stolen from the carriage. In his severe, and, perhaps, just 
determination, to check youthful crime and vagrancy, papa 
sought out and detected the poor recipient of my most fatal 
bounty. In indescribable anguish I heard the child Mar- 
gery's doom. In miserable weakness I shunned confession 
of my falsehood ; and, Mark, then began the misery of my 
future life. Day and night that poor, wan face reproached 
me, in my secret thoughts, alike in gayety or loneliness ; and 
when from that terrible illness I recovered to hear all lament 
the injury received in my appearance, I felt it was God's 
just and righteous award for the sin which I had committed. 
0, if the poor, weak, pampered child had had any one to 
have bestowed half the attention to her erring, but loving 
heart, that was lavished upon her physical well-being, she 
would have grown into a different womanhood. From the 
constant moan which followed my restoration, for that poor, 
perished bloom, I turned to the kindly letters which you wrote 
5^ 



54 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

to me. From the jfirst I was tempted to say to you, ' I am no 
longer your beautiful, but your poor, pale, but still loving 
Rosa ; ' but I dared not, lest you also should cease to love. You 
came back ; and, Mark, I saw that you had detected the false- 
hood of my correspondence with you ; and then, in the midst 
of my regret, came your avowal of affection, the proffer of 
your hand. Mamma said I was to marry you. I grew giddy 
with the abrupt realization of my girlish dreams. When I 
awoke, when the depth of a wife's emotions revealed to me 
(forgive, Mark, the words !) the hollowness of your own, 
with sorrow indescribable, and weak, miserable pride, I sought 
to veil from all eyes my disappointment. A little while I led 
that frivolous life in which there was no enjoyment ; and then 
a hope, in which there was the certainty of happiness, dis- 
pelled the gathering shadows. Much of your old tenderness 
returned, to add to the unutterable joy with which I antici- 
pated, in my child's being, a shelter from every sorrow. 

" And suffer me briefly to pass over that episode so painful 
in both our lives. In the presence of Beatrice I recognized 
one over whose well-remembered loveliness you had hung in 
more than an artist's admiration of its counterpart. In those 
careless words which told Mr. Leslie that you had met in 
Naples my heart drank the poison which was to rankle there 
in secret. And when our child was born, I asked, I prayed 
but for beauty. And God gave it to her. She was lovely to a 
degree rarely seen in infancy. Not as a tender, helpless 
child would I give her to a father's love and care. I had 
looked upon my own pale face until its contrast with the brilliant 
beauty of Beatrice maddened me ; and, with vain pride, I re- 
joiced in the gift which Heaven had bestowed upon my loneli- 
ness only as her beauty in its power should overshadow all 
other memories. I waited for the moment in which my exultant 
eyes should behold its recognition. Ah ! Mark, that hour never 
came. In that terrible moment, when, standing on the thresh- 
old, and looking into that sunlit room, you asked ' Are you by 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 55 

the window, Rosa ? ' I felt the hand which had smitten me 
through thee was indeed All-wise. I saw how little was the 
boon so madly craved — the utter nothingness of beauty, when 
life's shadow fell, and all else was barren waste ! What had 
been mamma's loveliness to her husband sightless? What 
Beatrice's radianCe, to thee blind ? 

"Soon over the joy with which I realized how necessary to 
you I was, Mark, came the conviction of the brevity of my 
days. But you were going away, and I would not willingly 
have imparted it to you, to chain you to my side, when hope 
was waking into existence in that heart which had patiently 
resigned itself to its destiny. We parted, and even then I 
was almost without hope of ever seeing you again on earth. 
I was right ; closer and closer pressed the shadow which I 
knew was that of Death ; and there was deep solicitude in my 
breast for the child so soon to be motherless ; for the child, 
Mark, for it would not be so with you. ' Who will care for 
thee, and guide thy childish impulses aright, my dear child ? ' 
was the ever-recurring thought. Soon it was answered by a 
messenger, whom God sent to me in my time of great want. 

" I was sitting with my darling alone in my chamber, not 
many days ago, towards the day's decline, when I was told 
that there was a lady below, who refused to send up her name, 
but who was desirous of seeing me, and begged permission 
to be received in my own apartment, if I was unable to go 
down. I consented, wondering which of my acquaintances it 
could be. Something there was 'in the outline of the veiled 
figure which crossed the threshold of the door that caused me 
to clasp closer to my heart the child upon my knee. With a 
quick gesture she put back her veil, and, Mark, the woman 
whose portrait by yourself I have looked upon with such pas- 
sionate despair stood before me, and (God forgive me for the 
wrong which I did her childhood !) I beheld Margery, the out- 
cast. It was the rapid utterance of those words which 
revealed to me, in the person of Beatrice, that of the unhappy 



56 THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 

Margery, which hushed unspoken the bitter words trembling 
on my lip. 

" The evening fell — fell upon the revelation of her life, so 
nobly, truthfully given, that in my heart I prayed, while my 
child slept on my bosom, and Beatrice spoke, ' 0, that one 
like her, my God, might counsel and guide this poor, lone 
child in her youth to that same noble integrity which makes 
womanhood so beautiful ! ' Everything, Mark, has she told 
me ; I know all, from the period in which by the sister 
of mercy she was taken under the protection of their order, 
and educated in Baltimore. From thence she went to Naples. 
That you were there beloved by her she confesses, with a 
frankness which neither wounds nor repels me; that that 
love was reciprocated by you, I cannot doubt. Why you 
separated I cannot divine. I only realize (let me convey it 
to you in all tenderness and commiseration for the wrong you 
did yourself equally with me) that Rosa Evans became your 
wife as the inheritor of her father's wealth. Redress the 
wrong, Mark Allan, you did that noble heart ; assuage 
the wound you inflicted on your own, and for which your re- 
morse-burdened life has atoned ; and make restitution for the 
misery I also once endured by giving my child a protector. 
From Heaven there will be ever whispered blessings on the 
breast cradling my darling's head above the noble heart of 
Beatrice. 

" Once I prayed that I might but behold you look upon 
the beauty of my child. Never, never on earth will that prayer 
now be granted ; but it is in perfect resignation to the Divine 
will that I say, ' God's will be done.' " 

Not then, when his heart was torn with remorse and self- 
upbraidings, could Mark Allan endure the suggestion which 
those words awoke. Time poured the balsam of all humanity 
upon the heart which had bled with keenest accusations 
{I gainst himself; olden memories pressed upon him with irre- 
sistible power. 



THE OUTCAST AND THE HEIRESS. 57 

The strength of Beatrice's faith in that love-atoning was 
evidenced in the watchful care, the tender nourishment, of 
the dark-eyed, smiling child of the dead ; who, calling her by 
the blessed name of mother, was never suffered to forget the 
being who gave her birth, now lifted to the life divine. 



MIRANDA 



I KNOW thee here on thy enchanted isle, 
A poet's vision, by high art enwrought, 

Thy peerless beauty cloistered from all guile 
In the pure Parian, perfect as his thought. 

Pleading with Prospero, I see thee stand. 
Blanched by such tender pity as to seem 

Like a fair Aphrodite on the strand. 

Born of the shivered foam-wreath's snowy gleam. 

Almost from thy pale lips I hear the prayer 

For those " poor souls" that perish in thy sight; 

Their cry of terror thrilling on the air 

Through the grim horror of that tempest-night. 

The wild winds tangle back thy waving hair, 
As their woe-laden echoes they repeat, 

Wakening thy heart to sorrowful despair, 
O'ershadowing thy smile, serenely sweet. 

Dark cloud-rift, floating o'er the mellow haze 
Of thy young spirit's tranquil morning dream, 

Veil that bright future yet to meet thy gaze, 
Arched with the glory of love's iris beam. 

But we gain courage from thy sad, sweet face ; 

Earth's tempests sweep o'er every soul with pain, 
And yet, for us, some wave of Heaven's grace 

May bear rich blessings to a solemn main. 



FLORENCE VASSAL; 

OR, REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 



Thy cheek too swiftly flushes ; o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast ; 
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth." 

If, gentle reader, you have a leisure hour at your disposal, 
draw your easiest chair into the cosiest corner of your apart- 
ment. If it be night, — and a cold, stormy one, like this on 
which I am writing for you, — if the wind sighs mournfully 
about your casement, draw your curtains, fold on fold, o'er 
the dreary view of the cheerless scene without. Fill the 
grate with the melting anthracite, and bid its cheery song 
drown the sobbing of the wintry wind. Forget that the 
rain comes down with a dull, monotonous sound, — that the 
moon has veiled her face in the sable clouds. Suffer the ice 
which has crusted over your heart in life's hours of wintry 
strife to melt in the soft and genial atmosphere of hope. 

Mingling with the lamp-light, the fire-light now falls upon 
a fair face before me, looking down from its portrait-frame. 
As I look upward to this face wild waves of feeling are 
stirred, and down amid the waters there gleams a jewel long 
lost, whose rays are falling soft on memory's shore, while 
half-forgotten tones, sweeter than the wildest note of music, 
come faintly to my ear. Olden memories are waking into 



60 FLORENCE VASSAL; OB, 

life and beauty ; my girlhood's most earnest love comei 
back, and in the sunshine of memory disappears the gathered 
frost of maturer years. 

The portrait of Florence Vassal hangs before me. I look 
upon a white brow gleaming amid clustering curls, — curls 
needing but a thread of gold woven amid them to look life- 
like as the dark ringlet, shorn from that young head many a 
year ago, which lays before me. In the Grecian nose, the 
arched brows, the delicate crimson lips, lays a world of 
beauty ; but the eyes, so softly bright with their heavily- 
fringed and drooping lids, — 0,how they haunt me, tear-laden 
as I have looked upon them, even while the warm heart- 
smile lingered on the tremulous lips ! There is a slight curl 
of those lips — an almost imperceptible haughty carriage of 
the head, betraying the proud, high spirit which once throbbed 
within that bosom, over which, close to the slender throat, is 
gathered the rich lace which frills the dark bodice, fitting 
close to the symmetrical form. 

Aside from its intrinsic value as a truthful portrait, this 
beautiful painting is valuable as a work of art. At a glance 
one must recognize a master-hand in the rich coloring, the 
soft shading of the hair, and the life-like expression of the 
mouth and eyes. 

This fair likeness of Florence — this silken curl, with a small 
package of letters, worn and faded by time, the memory of 
her depth of feeling, her genius and her destiny — are all that 
is left to me of the friend and companion of my early girlhood. 

It was early in the summer of 18 — that I visited, for the 
first time, Glenary, the delightful home of the Vassals. The 
house was a spacious, airy building, of a dark-gray stone, 
surrounded by extensive and highly-cultivated grounds. The 
dwelling itself could boast little of architectural beauty, but 
its proprietor had added a wing at the left, with deep, em- 
bayed windows, which commanded a wide and most enchant- 
ing prospect of the surrounding country. In this wing he 



REMINISCENCES OP BIY YOUTH. 61 

fitted up a valuable library; and in that pleasant room, with 
the bright sunlight falling through voluminous curtains, and 
filling every nook and recess with its chastened light, Flor- 
ence and myself were wont to linger away many a bright 
summer morning of our existence. Balconies, with balus- 
trades of fretted stone, had been thrown out from numerous 
windows, around which clustered the honeysuckle, within 
whose shadow the running rose laid its crimson blossoms to 
rest upon its leaves, and Glenary grew into an abode of far 
more picturesque beauty than many more costly residences in 
its vicinity. 

Unlike the greater portion of his neighbors, who were in 
the country but for a brief season, Mr. Vassal made Glenary 
his home for the entire year. The city, with its stir and 
excitement, offered no inducement to the grave, intellectual 
man, who found his chief happiness in his books, and his devo- 
tion to a lovely invalid wife, and their two children, Florence 
and Annie ; the last-mentioned a gentle, quiet girl, some 
three years younger than Florence, whose placid features 
neither flushed with excitement or kindled with passion, con- 
tent and happy ever to linger by her mother's side, bowed 
above some light feminine task, listening with absorbed atten- 
tion to her father's voice, as from some book he sought to 
entertain the invalid's sometimes weary hours. In the mean 
time Florence, on a spirited horse, would scour the country 
for miles, and burst upon them like a sunbeam, all flushed 
and gay with the excitement of her daring horsemanship. 
Then Mr. Vassal would draw her to his knee ; and, with her 
riding-whip still in her hand, and her little straw hat tossed 
carelessly back, she would, with merry words and laugh, win 
the color to her mother's cheek, and the light to her eye, while 
even Annie would pause from her work, and her own low 
laugh mingle with her sister's. I have often seen the 
mother smile the brightest when Florence's ringing laughter 
fell upon her car, although, perchance, but the moment prior 
6 



62 FLORENCE VASSAL ; OR, 

a heavy footstep had made her start, and press her hand to 
her head. One pleading smile when a wilful word darkened 
her father's brow, and the cloud disappeared from thence in 
an expression of almost idolizing love. He looked upon the 
beautiful face of his eldest-born, and once more in her he 
beheld the young beauty of his wife when she stood before 
the marriage-altar in the spring-time of life. 

He saw Florence's dark eyes flash, and her red lip curl in 
pride and passion, and recalled his own boyish passions, which 
time and experience had subdued. He forgot that passion 
and uncontrolled pride is far more dangerous to the impulsive 
heart of woman than to man. He knew her to be richly 
dowered in beauty and in talent ; to be capable of experiencing 
a deep, devoted affection. He forgot that that very intensity 
of feeling was far more perilous to her future happiness than 
had it not existed, linked, as it was, with ungoverned wayward- 
ness and passion. 

The pleading smile, the dimmed eyes, the gentle obedience 
to his will, lulled him to security. He forgot that she yielded 
to no other ; that he alone had the courage or the power to 
thwart her, and in her affection only she yielded her will. 
But when, long afterwards, a love deeper even than that which 
she had borne him awoke in the girl's heart, and she stood 
erect before him in all the arrogance of unchecked wilfulness, — 
when, in his turn, he met the tempest of passion which neither 
iron will nor stern reproach could quell, — then the veil was 
lifted which hid the past, and all his forgotten duties came 
over him when his power was passing a^ay. For more than 
two years Florence and myself were roiUhBiates at a large 
boarding-school, at some distance from Glenary. It was her 
first absence from home ; and, although the allotted school-term 
had not expired when my own drew near to a close, her peti- 
tion to return to her home was immediately answered by her too 
indulgent parents with their assent. It was with mutual grief 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 63 

we parted, and Florence's tears only ceased to fall when I 
promised to visit her during the summer. 

A fine June morning at length found me at Glenary, 
according to my promise to Florence. The air was fragrant 
with the breath of a thousand roses, and the trees, in their 
fresh green foliage, waved lovingly about the old gray house, 
cashing their shadows, through the open casements, upon the 
cool, white matting of the chamber-floor appropriated to my 
use. Florence had filled a vase on the dressing-table with the 
sweetest of her garden-blossoms, and they flooded the atmos- 
phere with their fragrance. Weary with the fatigue of a 
long journey, I had laid aside my travelling-dress, and lain 
down to rest. I was half asleep, when a loud, gay laugh 
awakened me, and I arose and looked down from my 
window. * 

Florence stood upon a balcony just below me on the left, 
bending down so low that only as the breeze lifted her curls 
could I obtain a view of her flushed cheek. Upon the green 
sward beneath there stood a young gentleman, about whose 
head she had showered an avalanche of flowers. One by one 
he picked them carefully up ; then, raising his hat, lifted them 
to his lips, while the color stole faintly to his cheek, and I 
caught a glance of profound admiration and tenderest expres- 
sion bestowed on Florence. 

" Pshaw, Herbert ! throw them away, or I '11 not come 
down," she commanded, in half-pleased, half-embarrassed 
tones. But he only smiled, and placed the roses in his bosom, 
while I wondered not that a moment subsequent she stood 
beside him, so winningly sweet was the smile he gave her. 
Then Florence laid her hand upon his arm, and they passed 
slowly forward amid the shrubbery. I watched them until 
they disappeared, when, once more throwing myself upon the 
bed, I fell asleep. 

The pressure of warm lips upon my own aroused me near 
noon, and Florence was bending above me. 



64 FLORENCE VASSAL; OE, 

" Come, lazy one ! " she said ; " the dressing-bell has rung, 
and I cannot s^^are you longer." 

" I have a story to tell you to-night," she continued, as I 
gave the last touch to my toilet. 

" A love-tale, Floy ? " 

" Hush ! " and she held up her finger laughingly, to 
silence me.^ 

" We have company to-day, — Mr. Herbert Manners," said 
Florence, again with the same embarrassed air, as we paused 
at the drawing-room door. 

A gentleman, who was conversing with Annie, arose on our 
entrance, and came forward. He was the same whom I had 
seen in the garden ; somewhat older than I had thought him, 
graver and more dignified in his appearance ; but the smile 
with which he greeted me as Florence's friend was sweeter 
even than I had deemed it. 

He was evidently very much in love with my friend, and 
there appeared to be a quiet understanding between himself 
and her family, who evidently regarded him as her betrothed. 
But, though she sang the songs which he loved best, though 
she smiled and at times blushed beneath his glance, still I 
confessed myself disappointed. There was something, though 
I knew not what, wanting in her manner. She loved not 
Herbert Manners as I expected Florence Vassal to love. 

With the night came the fulfilment of her promise. She 
told me of her engagement to Herbert Manners, who was 
studying law in New York. That, owing to impaired health, 
brought on by too diligent application to his studies, he had 
been for many weeks rusticating at a quiet farm-house in the 
neighborhood of Glenary ; that his health had much im- 
proved, and he intended, early in the autumn, to return to the 
city, eager to complete his studies and enter on his profession, 
when Florence was to become his wife. 

Whefli my companion ceased speaking, we both fell into a 
revery, and she was the first to speak. " Sometimes," she said, 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTU. 65 

— and her voice was low, almost sad, — " sometimes I ques- 
tion myself, Do I really love Herbert as I should ? I feel no 
enthusiasm. I am only very calm. I experience no new or 
diflfcrent emotions." 

Her words surprised me ; for I, also, was at that moment 
secretly questioning myself, Did she in truth love Herbert 
Manners ? " Hush ! " I said, earnestly ; " hush ! banish such 
idle fancies ; you should not suffer them to intrude on you 
now, Florence ! " And with a " good-night " we separated. 

The following morning, with her lover's appearance, all 
doubt seemed to have taken wing, and she smiled upon him 
brightly as my most earnest wish could have desired. 

I had been several weeks at Glenary, and Herbert Man- 
ners, in the interval, had won much upon my regard, while 
Florence's affection and consequent happiness appeared to be 
daily on the increase, when we received invitations to a bril- 
liant evening party. Herbert was prevented by some engage- 
ment from attending us, as usual; and Mr. Vassal accompanied 
us, at his wife's earnest desire, for she was then stronger and 
better than she had been for a long time. 

I think that I never saw Florence looking lovelier than she 
did that night, with a spray of crimson buds in her hair, which 
I had gathered for her to match Herbert's bouquet, and the 
gossamer folds of her white dress floating about her. 

The evening was somewhat advanced when Florence and 
myself stood leaning against the curtains which draped a 
window, as we watched the graceful movements of the gay 
dancers. 

" Look ! " she said, all at once, in earnest tones ; and, fol- 
lowing the direction in which she glanced, I beheld a gentleman 
speaking with our hostess, and evidently directing her atten- 
tion towards my companion. He was an exceedingly handsome 
man, taller than Herbert Manners, and of a more powerful 
form, with a certain proud carriage of the head that was very 
striking. The forehead was broad and high ; the eyes very 
6^ 



66 FLORENCE VASSAL J OR, 

dark and lustrous, and filled with a light that no woman 
could meet, when the heavily-fringed lids were raised, with- 
out the color deepening upon her cheek beneath their gaze. 
The mouth was small, the lips thin and compressed ; the cheek 
pale, as though something of the vigor of manhood had been 
exhausted. Only in the expression of those eyes, and the smile 
which at times flitted over his countenance, was there anything 
passionate or voluptuous ; and often there mingled with that 
smile an expression of bitter irony ; but when my glance was 
first turned towards him his countenance was lighted up with 
a glow of admiration, and his eye flashed warm and bright 
upon Florence, as, with our hostess on his arm, he approached 
her, while the color deepened on her cheek and her lids fell 
beneath his gaze. But the low, musical voice which fell upon 
her ear banished all embarrassment ; and when he led her to 
the dance, shortly afterwards, there was a smile on her lip 
which betrayed her pleasure. 

Silently — almost sorrowfully — I watched her, as she 
floated down the room beside that stately form, and in the 
pauses of the dance listened to that witching voice, her 
beautiful eyes raised with a frank, earnest gaze to his. 

The last hour of the evening had come, and when the 
bewildering music of a gay waltz floated through the rooms. 

Florence was resting a moment by my side, and Mr. Cun- 
ningham had drawn an ottoman before her, where he sat con- 
versing with the ease of an old acquaintance. He arose 
with the music, begging her once more to join the dancers. 
Florence rarely waltzed, — it was her mother's wish, and she 
knew it to be Herbert's also, that she should not, — and she 
declined ; but it was with such evident reluctance that the 
gentleman felt himself emboldened to repeat his petition ; and 
Florence rose slowly, irresolutely, but a bright smile met her 
glance, and, with a faint answering one on her own lip, she 
sufiered him to lead her away. He waltzed well, and Flor- 
eneo was fond of dancing. With irrepressible admiration I 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 67 

was watching their graceful evolutions, when a deep sigh 
arrested my attention, and, looking round, I beheld Herbert 
Manners, with a clouded brow, watching that fairy-like form 
in the distance. With her hand clasped to her side, above a 
heart beating with excitement, with beaming glance and 
glowing cheek Florence paused before us. 

"You here, Herbert?" she said, with a sweet smile, 
extending her hand in welcome. He just clasped the taper 
fingers, replying, in low tones, 

" Evidently unexpected, Florence." 

There was a slight accent of sternness in his voice, and 
the smile died away upon her lip, while her voice trembled 
as she questioned, 

"Are you ill, Herbert? " 

" Not ill in body." 

" You are angry, then, that I have waltzed ? " 

At that moment, a flower fell from the bouquet which she 
held upon the floor; and Mr. Cunningham, who had with- 
drawn a step from our circle, bent down, and with a gay 
smile placed it in his bosom. 

" Not that, not that, Mr. Cunningham ! " said Florence, 
earnestly. But Herbert heard her not ; he had turned away, 
with changing color, when Harry Cunningham placed the 
flower within his bosom. 

" But why not this? " questioned the gentleman. "Will 
you exchange with me this for the buds which you wear in 
your hair ? " 

" Willingly," answered Florence ; and, as she spoke, she 
drew the spray of roses from her hair. They were the flowers 
which I had gathered, and consequently less prized than the 
gift of her betrothed. 

" Ah, this is indeed more desirable," he said, gallantly, 
and with a beaming glance he raised them to his lips, — but 
Florence saw it not. The rose — Herbert's rose — was once 
more placed within her bouquet, and her glance following 



68 FLORENCE VASSAL; OR, 

him as he retreated amid the crowd ; but an opposite mirror 
had reflected the entire group, and Herbert only knew that 
Florence Vassal had taken a flower from her hair to place it 
within a stranger's hands, and that man he beheld press to 
his lips that which the touch of his betrothed should have 
consecrated to himself alone. 

With a cold, almost haughty bearing, Herbert Manners 
advanced to the side of Florence, as she stood in animated 
conversation with Harry Cunningham, while we waited for 
the carriage which was to take us home. 

Florence's shawl lay upon a seat before her, and her com- 
panion stretched forth his hand towards it. But at the same 
moment Herbert bent down, and with a flushed cheek himself 
took it up and folded it about her ; and, drawing her hand 
within his arm, led her silently to the carriage. Florence's 
dark eyes flashed, and her lip curled scornfully, as she turned 
round to Harry Cunningham, and, holdiDg out her hand, 
which was at once clasped in his, reiterated, with consider- 
able empressement, the invitation which she had already given 
him to her home. There was an expression of blended irony 
and intense gratification visible on his face as she spoke, and 
he marked the evident annoyance which Herbert Manners 
experienced ; but Florence was blind, in the moment's pas- 
sionate indignation, to everything but her lover's reproach. 

We rode home, with Florence leaning back in a corner of 
the carriage, scarcely deigning to bestow a word on Herbert, 
and he evidently grieved and most unhappy. 

" Florence ! " I began, sadly and reproachfully, when we 
were alone for the night ; but she professed herself very mis- 
erable, and besought me not to chide her, in so tremulous a 
voice, that I forbore at once. 

The following morning found her pale and nervous. Her- 
bert came later than was his wont, and requested her to visit 
him in the drawing-room. She went down irresolutely, and 
with evident reluctance. I think that she then experienced 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 69 

both shame and sorrow for her conduct the previous evening. 
She told me, that very night, of what passed between them. 

Herbert stood awaiting her presence. She went up to 
him, and held out her hand, smiling. He took it gently in 
his own, and led her to a seat ; but he did not smile, for his 
heart was for the first time wounded by her. 

" You are angry with me, Herbert ! " 

" Have I no cause to be, Florence ? " 

" No, Herbert, I think not." 

" Then you can explain," he said, eagerly. 

"But what if, to punish you, I do not choose?" she 
answered, half-poutingly, and tapping her foot impatiently 
upon the carpet. 

"Then you are not what I thought you to be; — then, 
Florence, I am indeed bitterly disappointed ! " 

" Disappointed, sir ! " and she drew herself erect, with a 
proud smile. 

" Florence ! " — (and, as he spoke, he took her hand within 
his own, and gazed sadly into the eyes which were flashing 
with passion) — " disappointed in your affection for me ! I 
have felt it cold in comparison with my own ; but you have 
many to love and be beloved by in return, and I — I am 
alone, with no human being but yourself to love. I have 
chidden the selfishness of passion that has yearned for a love 
like its own. This hour, Florence, I would be glad to know 
that even that which you have borne me has not all passed 
away." 

"No, no, Herbert!" — (and she spoke earnestly and 
truly) — " it is deeper than it has ever been." 

" God bless you for the assurance, darling ! " and he 
raised the little hand which he held, with tender reverence, to 
his lips. 

" What can I do, Herbert, to prove to you my sincerity? " 
she questioned. 

" Believe me incapable of jealousy, or distrust of yourself, 



70 FLORENCE VASSAL; OR, 

when I beg of you to receive no attentions from Mr. Cun- 
ningham. He is no companion for you, Florence ; I know his 
character from a dear friend. He is profligate and unprinci- 
pled, and I would guard my betrothed wife from the very 
shadow of that which is impure." 

His voice was serious, yet gentle withal, and his compan- 
ion unhesitatingly acquiesced in his wishes. 

Then Herbert told her that he must leave her for a brief 
space ; that he had received letters which would call him to 
town, on business of sudden import ; but that he should 
return very soon. 

"When they subsequently joined us in Mrs. Vassal's apart- 
ment, I saw that the cloud had passed from his brow, all 
grief from my friend's heart. 

Shortly, and with a lover's reluctance, his farewell had 
been given, and Florence and myself stood on the terrace 
watching his retreating figure. 

" It will be dull without Herbert," she said, sadly ; but, even 
as she spoke, the quick fall of a horse's hoofs coming down the 
avenue on the opposite side fell on our ear ; and, looking 
round, we beheld Harry Cunningham. 

Florence received him with quiet courtesy, but there was 
a slight coldness and reserve in her manner, so unlike that 
of the previous evening, that it could scarcely have escaped 
his observation ; but he paid no heed to her indifference, and 
I fancied from the first that he was determined to win her, in 
despite of her wishes, from the reserve which she at first 
manifested towards him. 

With the eye of a connoisseur he looked over her port- 
folio of drawings, with alternate commendations and severe 
criticisms bestowed on her productions ; which I could per- 
ceive, from the varying expression of her countenance, at once 
piqued and flattered her into unusual interest in her visitor. 
And then he spoke with enthusiasm of the charm of her coun- 
try home, and the beautiful scenery surrounding Glenary, 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 71 

while his dark eyes lighted with brilliancy, and the tones of 
his voice gave Vv'ondrous enchantment to his words ; but when 
the conversation turned on life, and society, his eyelids 
drooped, and a smile of irony, a slight tinge of contempt, gave 
tone to his light sarcasms on its forms. 

By the open piano lay a sheet of music, — a sweet song 
of the olden times, which Florence had sung to Herbert Man- 
ners before he left her. He took it up, called it his favorite song, 
and requested her to sing it for him. I knew that she would 
have preferred singing anything else ; but there was no alter- 
native. Perhaps it was the thought of Herbert that then 
touched her heart, saddening her voice, — a voice which was 
ever sweet and musical. 

He sat with bent head while she sang, listening with pro- 
found attention. He neither praised the sweet voice, which 
I knew must reverberate on his memory, nor did he again 
ask her to sing to him. But when, turning round, she met 
his glance, there was an expression in those eyes, not bold or 
passionate, but so full of tender interest, that her cheek flushed, 
her eyelids fell. 

Mr. Vassal came in before he left us, and his courteous in- 
vitation to the stranger to ride over, at his leisure, to his house, 
was eagerly accepted. 

And Cunningham forgot not his invitation ; day after day 
he came, and each day, I acknowledged him more fascinat- 
ing than on the previous ; each day Florence lost something 
of that reserve which she had endeavored to entertain, in 
obedience to her lover's desire. Daily the color deepened on 
her cheek ; the fever of unrest took manifest possession of her 
heart ; and I longed to write to Herbert Manners, and bid him 
return ere it was too late. And now Florence's joyous laugh 
was hushed ; now, in deep revery, with her eyes misty with 
strange dreams, she would sit apart from all others, and wake, 
at length, to passing objects, with a bursting sigh and paling 
cheek. 



72 FLORENCE VASSAL; OR, 

Herbert's absence had been protracted from day to day, 
and his name was never mentioned now by Florence. One 
morning, .as I read in the library, she came to me habited for 
a ride, jind requested me to accompany her. I have often 
regretted that I did not ; as it was, I arose and went out to 
see her mount. She had a beautiful, spirited horse, which 
she rode, and of which she was very proud. A servant held 
it before the door, and he bent down, holding out his broad 
palm to assist his young lady. One instant, the little foot 
rested within it ; the next, and Florence Vassal gathered up 
the reins, shook back the dark plume in her cap, raised 
herself erect with the air of a queen, and, with a light stroke 
of her whip, was speeding away like an arrow from a bow. 

That morning, as we rose from the breakfast-table, 
Florence and myself had stood side by side gazing from the 
window, watching the blue mist rising with a lazy, languid 
motion from the valley and woods below. " I have a presenti- 
ment that something unusual will happen to-day," she said. 
"Sorrow or joy, fair lady, which do you prophesy?" I an- 
swered, gayly ; but she did not even attempt to smile. 

" Herbert may come, dear Florence, and then you will for- 
get all sadness," I continued ; and again she neither smiled nor 
answered me, but turned her face towards me, and it was very 
sad. For a moment she looked at me steadily and mournfully, 
then turned away. 

Florence was right ; there occurred, that day, that which 
shadowed her future life. 

She had ridden far from home, when she reined her horse 
beneath the shade of a largo tree in the forest, leaving the 
bridle to hang loose about his neck. With a lap full of oak- 
leaves, she sat linking them together for a wreath for her hat. 
Absorbed in her task, she heard not a footstep stealing through 
the woodland. The first sound that fell on her ear was the 
click of a fowling-piece, followed by its loud report, as its 
charge swept by directly in front of her horse's head. With 



J 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 73 

one wild bound the startled animal sprang forward, and before 
the smoke cleared away horse and rider had disappeared, as 
a young countryman stepped out from the thicket. He heard 
the thundering of the horse's hoofs, but no cry of terror told 
him that that frightened creature bore a rider in the saddle ; 
and he bagged his game, passing leisurely forward, while on, 
on sped the startled animal. But Florence Vassal was a brave 
rider, and the color paled not on her cheek, until, suddenly 
mingling with that heavy tread, came a rushing sound upon her 
ear. One wild, startled glance she cast around. Before her was 
the path leading to a precipice's verge, where the waters of 
a cataract ftamed/ and thundered over the rocks below. On, 
onward she sped ; louder and louder roared the waters ; 
through the opening gleamed now the frail barrier which 
hedged the precipice's brink. On the left, close at hand, 
there was a steep, narrow gulley, the space not broad between. 
The reins in her hand, Florence would have turned the crea- 
ture's head, and have dared the leap; but now the dauntless 
heart grew faint, the cheek pale as death. With a wild, convul- 
sive effort, she strove to free her feet from the stirrup, and 
spring to the ground ; but her arm fell faint and nerveless at 
her side, strength came not at her bidding. An agonized cry 
for help broke wildly on the stillness as the animal reared 
itself for the leap. But a strong hand was upon the bridle ; 
there was a fearful struggle ; then the horse stood still beneath 
the stranger's hand, and Florence Vassal sank back upon the 
arm of Harry Cunningham. 

He lifted her from the saddle, and placed her on the green 
turf, loosening the little velvet riding-cap, and warming those 
cold hands within his own. 

" Darling, darling ! " he murmured, with intense passion, as 
he raised that drooping head, and laid it tenderly on his own 
broad chest, while the pallid lips grew warm beneath the 
pressure of his own. •' My own, my beautiful !" he whispered, 
as slow and fiint the color deepened in her cheek. For one 



74 FLORKNCE VASSAL; OR, 

brief moment she struggled for freedom; then she lay very still 
and quiet, listening to his passionate words of love. " You 
will be my own, nothing shall part us now, mine forever, Flor- 
ence? " And she bowed her head so low that scarce his lis- 
tening ear caught, " Forever, Harry ! " But ere she ceased, 
his lips were on her brow, and " Mine, mine ever, Florence 
Vassal ! " fell on her ear; but even as he spoke these words, 
she raised her hands, put him faintly, feebly away, and, 
bowing down her head upon her clasped arms, wept bitterly. 

" Florence," he said, in a voice so grave and firm, despite 
its tenderness, that she had no courage to disobey him, " sit 
down by me and listen ;" and she obeyed him, fo/she was faint 
with agitation, and her heart was yearning to him. Again 
he took that trembling hand in his own, and once more in the 
pressure of his clasp it felt warm. 

AVith eloquent voice and subtle argument he pleaded ; and 
Florence dried her tears while she hearkened, for there was 
magic in those tones to soothe and win her to yield, though 
even his words failed to convince her. 

" Mine, ever mine, Florence Vassal ! " repeated again the 
deep, rich voice of Harry Cunningham ; and now a faint an- 
swering assent was audible. 

The morning was wearing away, when I laid aside my book, 
and went out to look for Florence. Mr. Vassal had been 
sitting with me in the library, looking over letters which he 
had that morning received. One for Florence lay upon the 
table, and its address was in the handwriting of Herbert. I 
was growing anxious about Flprence, wondering what could 
have so long detained her, when I beheld her come in sight, 
with Harry Cunningham leading her horse by the bridle. I 
turned away as I beheld them, for I could not bear to look 
upon them thus with Herbert's letter in my hand. Mr. Vas- 
sal met me at that moment with an inquiry for his daughter. 
" She is now coming up the avenue with Mr. Cunningham," I 
answered. 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 7o 

" With Mr. Cunningham ? Did she ride out with him ? " 
But at that moment, as we approached the door, we beheld 
Florence's countenance deathly pale, and saw Harry Cunning- 
ham lift her from the saddle. With a faint, wavering step, 
she staggered forward, and fell upon her father's bosom. 

" My dear, dear child, what has happened to you ? " he 
asked, as she burst into tears, while her head sank closer to 
his breast. She strove to answer him, but her voice was 
hoarse and indistinct with emotion ; and we led her in, while, 
briefly as possible, Harry Cunningham related the accident 
which had befallen her, and the terrible danger from which 
she had been rescued. 

" God bless you, Mr. Cunningham ! you have saved my 
child's life, God bless you ! " burst from the father's lips, as 
he turned towards him with cordial, outstretched hand. Cun- 
ningham bent over Florence, and spoke to her in a low voice ; 
then, turning to Mr. Yassal, he said, 

" I will ride over before sunset, when I would fain speak 
with you ; " and Florence looked down, with crimson cheeks. 

When we were alone, she put her hand in mine, and we 
went up stairs to her chamber. A chair stood before the 
dressing-table, and she sank down, and buried her face in 
her hands, once more sobbing and weeping like a child. I 
fancied her nervous from the excitement through which she 
had passed, and strove with gentle words to soothe her ; but 
she only wept the more. At last I bethought me of Herbert's 
letter. 

" I have that, dearest Florence, which will change your 
tears to smiles ; " and I placed the letter before her. 

She looked up, and her cheek paled, while the hand which 
she extended trembled like a leaf. 

" I cannot read it," she said, tremulously ; " open it for 
me ; " and I did as she desired. There were but a few words, 
to tell her that he would be at Glenary the succeeding day ; . 



76 FLORENCE VASSAL J OR, 

but, brief as it was, every word was eloquent with the expect- 
ation of the joy of being with her once more. 

" To-morrow, to-morrow ! " she said, faintly. " I cannot see 
him, — it will kill me ! " She looked so miserable and wild 
when she again spoke, that I felt for her only tenderness 
and pity. 

"You must write to him," she continued ; "you must tell 
him that all this while I have been cheating myself, as well as 
him ; and, 0, tell him how very unhappy I am ! " 

" Have you no pity for Herbert ? " I questioned, re- 
proachfully, as the memory of his tenderness and devotion to 
her came over me. 

" Ah ! do be patient with me, do protect me now ! ' she 
petitioned. " I am so miserable, so helpless, in this bitter 
trial ! " 

But again I besought her to remember the noble, true- 
hearted Herbert. Of Harry Cunningham I spoke with stern 
truthfulness and earnest warning. But the tears which fell 
fast as rain-drops with the mention of her betrothed's name 
were dried in the indignant flush which glowed upon her 
cheek when I spoke of Mr. Cunningham. 

" And if I believed you, I would love him yet ! " she an- 
swered, passionately and bitterly, but with steadfast determi- 
nation in her tone. 

Late that afternoon, Florence and myself sat alone in the 
drawing-room. We could hear Mr. Cunningham's horse 
stamping upon the turf before the door, and more than once 
it neighed impatiently ; for his master had lingered long with 
Mr. Vassal in the library. 

Florence's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were filled 
with a feverish light ; the folds of her white dress were trem- 
ulous with her restless gestures, and she wound her fingers 
amid her curls, and tossed them back disordered from her 
brow. After a while, she was summoned to her father's 
presence. 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 77 

I never knew exactly what there passed ; but a few mo- 
ments afterwards Harry Cunningham strode through the 
hall with a ringing step, and threw himself into the saddle, 
with a fiery glow on his cheek, and a faint, mocking smile on 
his lip. 

I met Florence in the hall ; she was very pale, with her lips 
compressed as in pain. 

" Tell mamma I shall not come again to-night," she said, 
in a low, hurried voice, and passed on, with a step slower and 
heavier than it had ever before been. 

That evening Mr. Vassal called me to him in the library. 
He also was pale and sad, and his voice sorrowful, though 
stern. 

" My dear young friend," he said, rising and drawing a 
chair opposite his own, " I have sent for you to speak with 
you of my daughter. I count much on your influence with 
her. Mr. Cunningham, in requital of the service which he 
this morning rendered, has requested my consent to his en- 
gagement to Florence. Even did I not look on her as almost 
the wife of Herbert Manners, there are considerations which 
require me to exert a father's authority in opposition to her 
wilL 

" I have this day received a letter from an intimate ac- 
quaintance of my own. Some report has reached him of 
attentions ofiered by this person to my daughter, and he so 
describes him that I cannot doubt he is a profligate, unprin- 
cipled man ; — unprincipled he has shown himself in his recent 
conduct, sparing no pains to win an afiection which he knew 
to be previously pledged to another. 

" My child has now left me, for the first time, with bitter- 
ness in her heart towards her father. Better had Harry Cun- 
ningham left her to perish, than win her to a life of never- 
dying remorse, such as Florence's will be, if she heeds the 
voice which would tempt her to perjure herself in the eye of 
God and man. But it shall be a father's hand, which God 
7:^ 



78 FLORENCE VASSAL; OR, 

in his infinite mercy will strengthen, that will curb the pas- 
sion which were death not only to the body, but the spirit ; 
and though in the struggle the heart break its bonds, better 
by far give it back in its purity to its Maker, than leave it to 
become contaminated by the wiles of Harry Cunningham ; " 
— and the father raised himself erect, as though he would 
gain strength for the conflict. 

"Be gentle with her, — >love will conquer where nothing 
else may," I said, entreatingly. 

He gave me the letter of which he had spoken, and in it.s 
perusal I learned the cause of Mr. Vassal's determination, that, 
aside from her betrothal to another, Florence should never 
become his wife. 

An infidel, to the world in bold arrogance confessed, who 
could trust to his keeping the sacredness of human love ? No 
suspicion of this had ever previously crossed me ; for, though 
he had professed neither faith nor creed, I had never heard 
him scofi" at that religion which in his daily communion with 
the family at Glenary he knew to be reverenced by them. 

When I went to seek Florence, I found her sitting alone 
and in darkness. I went close to her side ; bent down and 
kissed her. Her cheek was wet with tears ; she wound her 
arms about my neck, and whispered, 

" I am very miserable ! " 

" I know it, dear Florence ; and I have come to you uncalled 
to try and comfort you," I said. Then I vainly strove to ex- 
plain to her more fully the position in which her waywardness 
must place her ; the verge of the precipice from which one 
hasty step would precipitate her into an abyss of moral sufier- 
ing. I besought her to pause, — to pray to Grod for strength 
to do what conscience told her was her duty in His eyes. 

" It is too late ; I have no power, no right, now to retract," 
she answered. 

" Is it ever too late, dear Florence, to do that which we 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 79 

know to be right ? And, now that you know him to be un- 
worthy of your love, will that love not pass away ? " 

" Never ! " answered the same low, unfaltering voice, — 
" never ! I do not believe him unworthy ; and even though 
I did, I would not, could not change." 

" Florence," I continued, for I could not bear to see her 
thus recklessly rushing to destruction, — " Florence, do you 
know that he professes to recognize no will mightier than his 
own ? — professes, I say, for how can a mortal being, endowed 
with reason and ordinary intellect, look abroad upon this 
world, and recognize no guiding hand ? There must be mo- 
ments, even in his wilful blindness, when his quickened pulse, 
his throbbing heart, must whisper him of a mightier power 
than his ! " 

" I will win him to faith in God, — to a belief in the Divin- 
ity ! " answered the unwavering voice. 

" Ah, Florence ! think you a frail waif of humanity, like 
you, can convince him of error, when the never-silent voice 
of nature is calling him in the rushing of waters, the fragrance 
of flowers, the deepening clouds and dawning day, the surging 
tide of human life ebbing from new-born existence to death's 
mystery, and still his sight is visionless, his ear deaf? Think 
you that love, wild, passionate and all-engrossing as it may 
now be, will endure when the beauty which it worships fades ? 
AVill he behold the pure heart, the immortal, ripening into 
more radiant charm with the decay of your material being ? 
Should your impulsive heart, the poetry of your youth, be lost 
in sorrow, the color fade from your cheek, your eye dim with 
suflering, would he not turn from you as from a flower bereft 
of its fragrance and beauty ? 0, believe me, there is no true 
and holy love without deep and steadfast faith and principle, 
to sustain and strengthen the human heart in life's manifold 
trials." 

When I paused she shook her head, with a sweet, trusting 
smile on her lips, as she reiterated her faith in her power 



80 FLORENCE VASSAL J OR, 

and in his love. There was too much of passion mingling in 
Florence Vassal's affection for Harry Cunningham, even had 
it been legitimate in its abandonment. She made an idol in 
the place of Him who has said there shall be no idols. 

The day was just breaking the following morning, when I 
was aroused by tidings of Mrs. Vassal's illness. Annie was 
bending over me with tears in her eyes, and sobbing vio- 
lently. By a dim, uncertain light I hurried to the sick room. 
The family physician was coming, out as I entered, and I 
overheard him pronounce her ill in the extreme. She lay 
with closed eyes, white as the pillow beneath her head. 
She was suffering from a violent hemorrhage ; and she was 
too slight and frail, from long illness, to struggle against it. 

By her mother's side Annie Vassal grew calm, and watch- 
ful of her every want. Now the beautiful resignation, the 
heroic fortitude, of which that still, passive being was capa- 
ble, became apparent. 

" Mamma, mamma! " all at once broke upon the silence, 
in a voice of terror ; and, looking around, we beheld Florence 
in her dressing-gown before us. " Mamma ! " and with her 
child's voice the mother's eyes unclosed. She strove to 
smile upon her. "My own dear mamma!" and she bent 
down and pressed her lips fondly and passionately to her 
mother's cold cheek. 

Vivid now was the contrast between the eldest born and 
the youngest child ; — the one, meek and shy as a little child 
in life's hours of sunshine, grew all at once, in the murky 
atmosphere of fear, into a strong-hearted, enduring woman ; 
while the brilliant, impetuous Florence yielded at once to 
the bitter grief which that hour impressed on all our hearts. 

" You must not excite her, Florence ! " said Mr. Vassal, 
drawing her from her mother's side. She turned her glance 
towards him, shuddered slightly, and stept back. That 
glance struck to the very heart of her father. I could per- 



EEMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 81 

ceive it by the sudden quiver of his lip, and the pressure of 
his hand to his heart. 

Slowly and sadly the day wore away ; silent and tearful 
we watched beside the sufferer. Unbroken quiet was ordered, 
and Florence and myself, as the time passed without any 
change in the invalid, went into the next room. No hand 
but Annie's raised the glass to her mother's lips ; none but 
herself smoothed her pillow; and that gentle hand never 
onee faltered weakly in its duty, although Annie Vassal's 
most beloved friend was evidently passing away forever. 

For the first time Florence lay weeping without restraint 
on the sofa ; and, with my head bowed to the sill of the open 
window, I watched the daylight fading, when I heard a step 
in the hall, the door opened noiselessly, and Herbert Manners 
came in. 

He approached Florence sadly and pityingly, sat down 
upon the sofa by her side, and whispered her name. She 
uncovered her face, and looked wildly upon him. 

*' Have you come, too ? " she said, turning away, as though 
she could not bear to look upon him in her grief. But he 
did not comprehend her; he little knew that his presence 
only added to her sorrow. 

Just then the door opened, and Annie stood on the 
threshold. 

" Mamma," she said, " is awake, and has asked for you 
all." 

Florence arose, and Herbert drew her hand in his arm, for 
she trembled so she could scarcely stand. 

"Try and control yourself, darling Florence, for her sake," 
entreated Annie, and we went in. 

The sick one's glance rested on the door, and she smiled 
faintly when she beheld Herbert Manners. 

" I have sent for you, my child, to tell you how much hap- 
piness it gives me to leave you to one like Herbert ; how 
much easier you have made this parting to me, now that you 



82 FLORENCE VASSAL ; OK, 

are the promised wife of one to whom I may safely trust the 
welfare of my precious child." Florence looked up as though 
she would fain reply ; but, as her eye fell upon that placid 
countenance, with the memory of Harry Cunningham intrud- 
ing even there, came the recollection of her mother's life-long 
affection, and the words died unspoken upon her lips. 
" And you will be faithful, — true to him, as he to you, Flor- 
ence, my child ! " 

" Ever, mamma ! " she answered, in a faint, low voice, 
half unconscious of her own words, for her glance was on that 
face before her. But others heard them then, and forgot 
them not. 

Florence felt the hand which the dying woman clasped placed 
within that of Herbert Manners ; felt the warm pressure of 
his fingers about her own, and listened to the low blessing 
pronounced upon both, powerless to move, with no voice to 
speak; felt the arm of Herbert lift her from where she 
knelt, heard his voice whispering words of comfort in her ear. 
And, lo ! between herself and that death-bed rose the vision 
of Harry Cunningham, whispering, " Mine ever, Florence 
Vassal ! " 

The forms about her grew faint and indistinct ; she saw us 
not as we gathered about the dying, when the calm voice of 
the venerable clergyman arose, saying, " He who has given 
has taken away ! Blessed be his holy name ! " 

But when he paused, she raised her head, gave one long, 
despairing glance at the still face before her, and fell uncon- 
scious on the arm of Herbert. 

Annie Vassal's hand smoothed her mother's dark hair 
above the faded brow ; and then she laid her cheek beside the 
dead, while, for the first time, the brave young heart yielded 
to its agony. 

The morning of the funeral came, and Florence and my- 
self stood within the darkened chamber gazing on the dead. 
Softly through the closed casement came the song of birds, 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 83 

the hum of the dawning day ! Without was life and light ; 
within, darkness and death. In silent rest lay the dead, a smile 
of peace upon her lip. With pallid cheeks and drooping 
eyelids stood the living. 

" Mamma, mamma ! " murmured Florence, in a voice of 
terrible anguish ; and, for the first time in life, there was no 
mother's voice of answering love to soothe her to rest ; and 
Florence bowed her face, while no ray of light, no trust in 
heavenly love, illumined the human heart, now shrouded in 
the darkness of utter desolation. 

As she knelt there, the door opened, and the slight, child- 
ish figure of Annie glided in, with a handful of fresh flowers. 

With reverent tenderness she pressed her lips on her 
mother's brow, and wound the fair blossoms into a garland 
which she placed upon the still bosom before her; while tears 
soft and warm, the heart's dew, fell glittering amid their 
leaves. Then the little hands were meekly folded, the tearful 
eyes raised in prayer. And Florence looked upon the youth- 
ful countenance beaming with tender resignation to God's 
will, as through the shrouded casement there stole a beam of 
morning light, resting upon the brow of Annie Vassal ; and, 
wondering at the blessed peace which filled her sister's heart, 
hearkened to the simple prayer of " Not my will, God ! 
but thine, be done ! " 

Very wearily passed the week which succeeded Mrs. Vas- 
sal's death. Florence remained in her chamber, shunning all 
society ; and each day the color faded from her cheek, and 
the usual light footstep grew heavier and heavier. Herbert's 
glance would follow her with anxious solicitude ; and more 
than once his lip trembled with emotion, as she turned coldly 
from him. 

One morning, as I sat alone in the embrasure of the 
library window, Herbert came in, and, drawing a seat to the 
table in the centre of the room, he bowed his face upon his 
hands, and as unseen I looked at him, I beheld a tear start 



84 FLORENCE VASSAL ; OR, 

througli his fingers and drop to the table. I would have 
gladly striven to have comforted him, but I did not like to 
intrude on his grief. Just then a step paused in the hall ; 
then the door opened, and Florence stood on the threshold in 
her black dress, looking very thin and pale ; and there was, 
moreover, an expression of suffering in those beautiful eyes, 
very painful to behold. She paused and hesitated when her 
glance rested on Herbert ; but he arose and placed a chair 
before him, and with downcast eyes she approached and took 
it. There followed a moment's silence, during which he sat 
earnestly regarding the changing color of her cheek. 

" Florence," he questioned, " do you love me ? " 

She did not answer him, but her lips quivered, and she 
leaned heavily against the table for support ; and once more 
he spoke. 

" Florence, is there another whom you love better than you 
dome?" 

A crimson glow swept over the girl's face, the drooping 
eyelids trembled, and tears broke out and fell upon her cheek. 

" I will leave you ! " he said. " You are free as when we 
first met ! God bless you, Florence Vassal, and farewell ! " 

How strangely calm his tones ! She raised her eyes to his, 
while a soft, warm smile of gratitude stole to her lip ; but it 
faded with its birth. The countenance before her could not 
hide the anguish of his soul ; it had nothing of the composure 
of his voice. The generous, manly spirit hushed to silence 
the despairing cry of his wrung heart, but every lineament 
was eloquent with grief. 

" Herbert ! " she said, sorrowfully holding out her hand. He 
clasped it for a brief instant in his own ; the next, and Her- 
bert Manners had parted forever from Florence Vassal. And 
with that pressure passed the sunshine and peace of her life. 



" You are getting thinner and paler each day, my child ! " 
said Mr. Vassal, rising and approaching Florence as she 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 85 

stood one morning leaning against the casement, the light fall- 
ing aslant her countenance. As he spoke, he laid his hand 
gently on that drooping head. 

Grief had wrought deep ravages in the beauty and radiance 
of Florence's face. The features were sharp and wan ; and 
the bright eyes had grown dim and mournful. 

Herbert Manners had shielded Florence from all censure, 
with the same generous spirit which he had manifested in 
parting from her ; and the father never chided or reproached 
his wayward child. But I could see how painfully his heart 
was wrung when she shrank away from the hand which would 
have rested in blessing on her head ; and, for some moments, 
he watched her in silence. 

" Florence," he said, at last, and a strange, stern expression 
settled down upon those usually gentle and placid features, — 
" Florence, a father cannot, with iron will, crush his child's 
heart. Time will not soften the obduracy which even the 
shadow of death has failed to dispel. The promise given 
your dying mother has been forgotten. This morning I have 
received another communication from Mr. Cunningham ; 
answer it as conscience and your own feelings dictate." And 
he placed a letter in her hand. " I will no longer thwart your 
will, Florence ; you are free to choose between us ; and a last- 
ing choice it must be, for the wife of Harry Cunningham 
leaves my heart and hearth;" and with folded arms, and 
stern bearing, he stood waiting her words. 

One word might, perchance, even then have saved Florence 
Vassal, — one word of tenderness, — as she stood there before 
us, trembling and fearing, doubting and loving ; but I could 
not speak, and the father's pride now held him mute. 

The troubled glance wandered around, and fell upon the 
letter in her hand ; then a warm, life-like hue spread over 
her face. 

" Mr. Cunningham, or myself? " said Mr. Vassal. 



86 FLORENCE VASSAL ; OR, 

" Harry ! " she almost whispered, and buried her face in her 
hands. 

Nearly an hour afterwards, when I entered the room, she 
was reading the letter which she had written to Harry Cun- 
ningham, and weeping in all the abandonment of mingled joy 
and sorrow ; but when her glance lingered on the last line, a 
smile so warm and bright, a blush so vivid, stole over her 
countenance, that no words were required to tell me its im- 
port. She folded it with a strange composure of manner, 
very unlike her previous agitation ; and Florence Vassal's eye 
again grew bright, her spirit buoyant, but for passing 
moments, which stole over her like clouds on the horizon of 
summer. 

On a glorious autumn morning Florence became the wife 
of Harry Cunningham. The drawing-room was flooded, during 
the bridal hour, with the bright light of a cloudless sun ; but, 
as the words which sealed her earthly destiny were spoken, a 
cloud swept over the face of heaven ; it just veiled the face 
of the bride with its gloom, and once more the sunshine fell 
warm about her; but the gloom lingered in other hearts, 
growing more palpable with the passage of time. 

" Remember, Florence, that when he for whose sake you 
have deserted all others deserts you in his turn, a father's 
house and heart is open to you. Until then, farewell ! " 
said Mr. Vassal, as, for the first time for many weeks, she 
wound her arms about him. With his first words Flor- 
ence dried her tears, and stood erect ; when he ceased, she 
turned coldly from his side, gave her husband her hand on his 
approach, and smiled fondly and trustingly on him, as he 
placed her in the carriage. 

We caught but a glimpse of a white face as the carriage 
drove ofi"; the next moment it was buried on the shoulder of 
Harry Cunningham, and Florence had left denary. 

She beheld not the heavy tears which chased each other 
down her father's cheek ; she realized not the gloom which 
filled the home which she left, 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTU. 87 



CHAPTER II. 



*' I mourn thee not ! life had no lore, 
Thy soul in Morphean dens to steep. 
Love's lost nepenthe to restore. 
Or bid the avenging sorrow sleep." 

Immediately after his marriage, Harry Cunningham took 
his wife abroad. 

Florence wrote home very often ; and her letters were long, 
and evidently written by a spirit full of love and happiness, 
— a spirit unclouded by aught but home memories. 

For more than two years they remained absent, and in the 
interval Florence became a mother. Her own eloquent pen 
could scarce portray her joy and pride when she spoke of her 
beautiful boy, — her little Harry. " He has his father's dark 
eyes, and the sweet smile of my own father," she wrote ; 
" and I tremble, as he grows in loveliness each day, lest he be 
taken to heaven, as a flower too fair to blossom on earth. I 
would never leave him ; I would watch his cradle slumbers, 
trust him to no other care. But we are in Paris, and it is 
Harry's pleasure that I should not confine myself to nursery 
duties ; it seems strange that so fond a mother should be as 
dissipated as I am. I often come home, faint and weary, 
with Harry, from some gay scene, to wake my boy for a kiss 
before I rest. Once, after coming home at a late hour, I 
went to him in my evening dress, and sat down to watch him 
sleeping. I was very weary, and I too fell asleep. When 
Harry returned he found me there, professed himself angry, 
find has since attributed my pale cheeks to the nursery watch. 
I am weary of Paris, longing to show you my little bud." 

After the above, Florence's letters became less frequent and 
very brief. She no longer spoke of her husband ; but she 
wrote with fond enthusiasm of her child, and in her love for 
him we recognized the same idolatrous affection which she had 
bestowed on his father. 



88 FLORENCE VASSAL; OR, 

A little while longer, and there was a vague rumor of an 
estrangement between Harry Cunningham and his beautiful 
wife ; but I could scarce credit it. 

Then Florence wrote to me. They were coming back. 
Soon after receiving her letter, I went to New York. The 
first night I attended the opera. I had but just taken my 
seat, when, in answer to an inquiry from another, a gentleman 
answered, " It is the beautiful Mrs. Cunningham." 

I followed the direction of his glance, and my eye fell on 
Florence. 

Yes, there she sat ; the fair girlish being, who I had last 
beheld a bride, had matured into a gloriously-beautiful 
woman. Radiant in her rich evening toilet, she was before 
me. There was the same young head which I had last 
beheld drooping in grief and shame upon the bosom of him 
who had won her to break her faith to the good and true, to 
desert in rebellious waywardness those who had cherished her ; 
the same dark eyes, almost fearfully bright, which had smiled 
through a mist of tears when the father last looked upon his 
perjured child, in the sore agony of helpless despair, — the 
bride of a profligate ! 

As I watched her I saw that she was regarding, with 
earnest scrutiny, some person on the opposite side of the 
house ; and, following her glance, I beheld Harry Cunningham. 
But, alas ! no answering smile of love now sought the eyes 
which grew so mournful as they rested on his face. 

He was bending over a dark-haired woman, who rested on 
the crimson cushions with an air of superb repose, drinking in 
the whispered words which fell from his lips. I perceived at* 
once that she was a foreigner, and a woman of exceeding 
beauty. There was burning passion in the eyes which sought 
her own ; but those fringed lids drooped not, neither did the 
crimson deepen on her cheeks. It was an every-day tale with 
the sensual Italian, and that very repose of manner betrayed 
the spirit within to Harry Cunningham ; and still he smiled 



KEMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 89 

and murmured in her ear, while that mournful glance rested 
on him. 

More beautiful than in other days was Florence ; but fear- 
ful even in its beauty was the crimson flush on her cheek. It 
was not the glow of perfect health, not mere joy and love ; 
had it been, it would have deepened and paled alter- 
nately. It was the fever flush of mental suffering. One 
could see it by the quivering of the lips, as, with a vain eff"ort 
to smile, she looked on the group gathered about her ; while 
in the light, rich and bright as that of the mid-day sun, the 
jewels woven in her braided hair glittered above the throbbing 
brain and beating heart. 

After a while the lashes drooped low over those wild, sad 
eyes ; and, shading her face with her fan, she leant wearily 
back. And so the evening wore on, while she sat with droop- 
ing head, neither listening to the rich music sweeping up to 
the vaulted ceiling, or to the words of those who toyed with 
the rare blossoms of her bouquet, mingling their fragrance 
with the perfumed air, as it lay unheeded by her side. 

I alone, of the many gathered there that night, as I gazed 
on her, knew that love was wrestling with her pride ; that her 
life-hopes were withering like the flowers she held in that 
wilderness of light and gayety. 

The evening was wearing away, when a footman appeared 
in the box of Mrs. Cunningham, who bent down and told her 
that which caused her to spring up with clasped hands, and 
very pale, while again her glance turned towards her hus- 
band. He was bending forward, gazing into the Italian's 
face; and Florence sent the man round to him, while a 
gentleman folded her cloak about her. Beautiful almost 
beyond a being of earth she looked, as she stood there, in 
utter unconsciousness of the many eyes turned towards her, 
— her glance bent on her husband. He looked over towards 
her when the man delivered his message, and appeared 
annoyed by the attention whidi she was attracting ; and I 
8# 



90 FLORENCE VASSAL ; OR, 

fancied, by the curl of his lip, that his answer to her was 
bitter and unkind ; and once more he turned to his companion, 
and gathered a flower from her bouquet. 

She at once turned to go. I met her in the lobby, and 
she recognized me at once ; but she betrayed neither surprise 
or emotion at the meeting. She was engrossed in one fear. 
Her child was ill ; they had sent for her. 

I accompanied her home, and strove to reassure her ; but it 
was useless. She sprang from the carriage the moment it 
drew up before her door, and, with reckless haste, ran up the 
marble steps, through the broad hall. 

The soft carpet gave back no echo to that flying step. All 
was silent ; but when we gained the upper hall there came 
through a half-open door a hoarse, suffocating cry. It was 
from her child's nursery ; and the nurse, with several of the 
domestics, stood grouped about his little bed, with anxious, 
terrified countenances. 

" Mamma, mamma ! " murmured the sufferer, in tones 
scarcely audible, stretching out his little arms, as she ap- 
peared. 

" My darling, my darling ! " and Florence lifted him in her 
arms. His face was crimson, his limbs moved convulsively ; 
but he laid his head on his mother's breast, as though nothing 
could harm him there. 

" Has no one gone for a physician? " I asked; but while I 
spoke, one entered. 

The child lay gasping and choking on his mother's bosom. 

" Save him, save him ! God, he is my all ! " and Flor- 
ence laid her boy back on his pillow, and fixed her gaze 
upon the doctor with frantic entreaty. But even as she 
prayed there came a fierce, convulsive struggle. " Mamma ! " 
he moaned, in scarce distinguishable tones: The beautiful 
eyes wandered to his mother's face with an expression of ter- 
rible pain ; then he lay calm and still, while a sweet smile 
stole to his breathless lips. She bowed her face to his; 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 91 

when she raised it, her darling was dead ! Florence laid her 
jewelled hand on the golden curls clustering about the white 
forehead of her gloriously beautiful boy, and a breathless 
silence fell over that luxurious chamber. It was broken by a 
heavy footstep coming slowly through the hall. It paused 
before the door, and Harry Cunningham entered, his cheek 
flushed with wine, his brow darkened by a frown. 

I drew back within the shadow of the curtains, and all gave 
way as he came forward close to his wife's side, while she 
stood like a statue by the dead. 

" God ! my boy ! Harry, Harry ! " burst from his lip. 
In his hour of misery he called upon his Maker's name. 
No words can portray the agony of that voice; but that 
which answered him was more terrible in its unnatural com- 
posure. 

" Dead ! dead ! Harry Cunningham ! My child will never 
wake again. He sleeps his last sleep ! he smiles his last 
smile! and it is mine, — he is all mine!" and she laid her 
cheek to that of the dead boy, and wound her arms about 
him. 

" Florence ! " and, with his own face fearfully white and 
wan, her husband laid his hand on her head ; but she moaned 
and shrank from his touch, and he turned away and hid his 
face. 

All through that fearful night Florence watched beside the 
dead ; her own hands folded the little robe about those rigid 
limbs, smoothed the bright curls, and laid her boy to rest ; and 
there the morning dawned upon her in her crushed evening 
dress, jewels still woven in her hair. But no word was 
spoken between us ; no tears came to moisten her strained and 
burning eyes. 

With the first gi*ay light of early day her husband stood 
by her side. One cold hand lay listless on her knee, and he 
took it within his. She strove to rise, but she had no strength ; 
and, looking up to him, she spoke : 



92 FLORENCE VASSAL; OR, 

" Harry, we must part ; I must leave you ! " 

" Part, Florence ! " 

" Suffer me to go home ! " she said, pleadingly ; — " home 
to die ! And our child, I would bury him at Glenary, where 
they will lay me too by his side." 

" Florence ! " said her husband, in horror-stricken accents, 
" Florence, my beloved, my wife, hear me ! " and he would 
have taken her to his bosom ; but she shrank aside, answer- 
ing: 

" Not your wife ! You have broken the vows which made 
me such. Not your beloved ! You never loved me, Harry 
Cunningham, or not thus had you wrung a heart which has 
clung to you ! I, too, have been a false and sinful woman, 
or I were not now looking on this dead boy, — upon your child 
and mine ! The memory of the past is with me ; and terri- 
ble is the retribution, but most just! I have sinned, and 
fearful is my punishment ! " [Alas, Florence ! even then you 
were more grievously in your blindness when you spoke of 
parting than you had ever been before. The sacredness of 
your marriage vows, with the obligation which they imposed 
to remain with your husband " until death do us part," was 
forgotten.] *' Will you not be merciful to me ? " she con- 
tinued. " May I not take my dead boy and go back to 
Glenary?" 

" Florence ! Florence ! " he answered, in the same horror- 
stricken tones. I did not think she could resist him ; but she 
did not waver. 

"May I go, Harry?" 

" Do you no longer love me, Florence ?" — and he looked 
wistfully upon her. 

" Mock me not with words and tones of affection ! My 
heart is broken ! Mock it not, Harry Cunningham ! " 

When she ceased, he bent down and kissed his boy's cold 
cheek; and there, by the dead, they parted, husband and 
wife! 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 93 

Once more Florence was at Glenary; and in the old 
church-yard lay her child, with the sunshine peering through 
the drooping willows, making the early violets to bloom upon- 
his grave. 

Each day, when the sun set, with slow and faltering step 
Florence sought that quiet spot, there to linger an hour away. 
But each day her step grew slower and heavier, her cheek 
more and more transparent ; and those who had known the 
gay Florence of other days turned aside to hide a starting 
tear, as their minds swept back the shrouding veil, and 
they looked on thai; faded face, so lovely even in its grief. 

Slowly passed the spring-time. Then June came, with its 
roses and its warm breezes ; but the soft air bore no balm for 
the broken heart. She had made an idol, and in her madness 
bowed before it in delirious worship ; but, now that that idol 
had fallen, — now that the veil was lifted which had so long 
shrouded her vision, — she turned, in the utter desolation of her 
soul, to her God. Kemorse was busy at her heart. The 
memory of broken vows was with her. You could perceive 
it in the wild, startled expression that flitted over her 
countenance even in her dreams. But a long time passed 
before she found courage to express the grief which oppressed 
her. 

The summer was in its glory, and the scorching sun of 
August had not parched the green fields or withered the 
fairest of the summer's flowers, when Florence, leaning heavily 
on her father's arm, entered the little parlor which had for- 
merly been her mother's favorite apartment. She was weaker, 
sadder, that day, than usual ; and her strength barely sufficed 
to bear her to the sofa. 

With all the gentle care of aflection, Mr. Vassal arranged 
the cushions beneath her head, and sat down by her side. 
Through the open window came the warm evening breeze, and 
stirred the dark curls of her luxuriant hair. By and by an 



94 FLORENCE VASSAL J OR, 

expression of perfect repose stole over her thin, white face, 
and we perceived that she slept. 

<' I have been dreaming of mamma," she said, in a low 
voice, when she awoke. " I fancied she was sitting here by 
my side, and that she was grave and sad. ' Florence, 
what are you doing here? Why are you alone?' she 
asked. 

" Father, it was not mamma's voice that I heard ; it was 
the voice of my heavenly Father, which has been long remind- 
ing his wayward child of her duty. I must heed the warning, 
for life is growing brief Death looks very near to me to-night, 
as I lay here, weak and helpless as a little child. Father, I 
cannot go to him I — may he not come to me ? " 

" As you will, darling ! " answered Mr. Vassal ; and 
Florence lifted her grateful face to his with the caress of 
childhood. 

With flushed cheek and burning eyes, too weak to rise, 
Florence lay upon a couch, waiting with hushed breath the 
coming of Harry Cunningham. With quivering lips she mur- 
mured his name, as he crossed the threshold of the chamber 
and sprang hurriedly to her side. 

*' Have you come, my own Harry ? " and, with a faint yet 
joyful cry, she wound her arms about him. 

" I could not die, beloved, until you had blessed and forgiven 
the wife who deserted you." 

" Die, darling ! You shall not ; you cannot leave me ! " 
But Florence's voice, sad and low, rebuked him. 

" Hush, beloved ! hush, Harry ! We must not rebel against 
God's will ; and it is his will that we now part ! " And, as 
Harry Cunningham looked upon the wan and faded counte- 
nance before him, a startled expression flitted over his 
face, with the dread conviction, which settled down into an 
expression of utter hopelessness. 



Harry Cunningham had been but a little while at Glenary, 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 95 

when, one autumn morning, I entered Florence's chamber with 
a few late summer flowers. She was sitting in an easj-chair 
before the window, a dressing-gown folded about her wasted 
form, and a soft morning light fell through the curtain and 
rested upon her head. She was very pale, and the heavy 
lashes drooped low upon her check. 

There was an expression of touching humility in the slight, 
bowed figure ; and over the meek, wan face flitted a smile of 
hope and faith, as the words which fell from her husband's 
lips broke on her ear. In deep, impressive accents, Harry 
Cunningham, seated before her, read from the Scriptures. 

The soul of the defiant man was shaken. Purified by 
sufi"ering, Florence lingered, bearing to him light from heaven. 
The bright beam of divine faith had penetrated the innermost 
depths of a soul hitherto shrouded in gloom. The voice of his 
Creator had pierced the deafness of his ear in the raging of 
the life-tempest ; and it spoke of peace to the weary, forgive- 
ness to all sin. 

He had looked upon his beautiful boy as he lay cold and 
still in death, stricken in all his glorious promise ; and the 
eye of the unbeliever could not pierce the grave and behold 
his child an angel in Paradise. No ! To him there was no 
blessed reunion ; with him death was the victor, and his 
glance saw but the perishing clay in the dreary grave, and 
beheld only the beauty there fading. Then memory bore him 
back to his lone home ; and where was she who had poured 
forth, in all the prodigality of a generous spirit, the priceless 
treasures of her heart, — those treasures which he had ac- 
cepted but to cast them idly away ! And now, when his silent 
home gave back no echo to his voice, how dark and drear 
was life ! Then the voice of undying tenderness summoned 
him to her side ; and when he looked upon her, smiling with 
inefi"able love upon him still, while Death's shadow fell over 
her, and its cold hand led her slowly from his presence, then 
the spirit, which had before been but shaken, was over- 



96 FLORENCE VASSAL ; OR, 

thrown ; and Harry Cunningham bowed down by his per- 
ishing idol's side, and prayed to his God for mere}'-, in the 
helplessness of suffering. And mercy was vouchsafed to the 
erring and the penitent. With half her being already in 
heaven with God and her child, Florence lingered, striving 
ever to enlighten and comfort the tortured heart upon which 
remorse had laid its iron hand. 

" Come unto me, all ye that are heavy-laden, and I will 
give you rest." — Harry Cunningham's voice was low and 
tremulous, and he bowed his head upon his hand. 

They did not notice me, and, placing the flowers in a vase, 
I turned to go, when I looked at Florence. She was holding 
out her hand, with a wandering, uncertain movement, towards 
her husband ; and I saw that the color was gone from her 
cheek and lip. 

" I cannot see you, Harry ! It is dark, and very cold ! " 
fell upon our ears. The next moment she lay in his arms, 
breathing very low and fast, her head upon his shoulder. 

" Call them ! She is dying ! " he said, in a hoarse voice ; 
but as he spoke they entered. 

" Florence, love, do you know me ? " said her father, bend- 
ing down his lips to her cheek. 

" Hold me close, closer to you, Harry ! I see him now, my 
boy ! my darling ! standing with the angels in heaven ! " were 
her last words. One moment her glance wandered around 
the apartment, then rested on her husband's face. She smiled 
a faint, blissful smile, but no more removed her gaze from his 
features. The breath came fainter and fainter, lingered with 
a low, indistinct murmur upon her lips, and then was husked 
forever ! 

With Florence's last breath a sunbeam broke through the 
foliage of the trees waving their boughs against the window, 
and flooded the chamber with a golden light, illuming that 
still, white face with angelic beauty. 

No tear dimmed the dark eye of Harry Cunningham as he 



REMINISCENCES OF MY YOUTH. 97 

looked upon his young wife, sinking into dreamless rest upon 
his bosom ; but the lips which lingered so long on her own 
were cold and white as those of the dead. The strife of life 
was over, the broken heart at rest ; and he who had made 
the ruin bowed by its side in penitent prayer ! 



Long years have passed since they laid her in the church- 
yard by her child, where flowers still bloom above their grave, 
and a single willow waves above them. 

Time has lifted the shadow which so long lay heavy on 
Glenary and its inmates. 

Herbert Manners, when he heard of Florence's death, has- 
tened to weep over the grave of his buried love. Annie Vas- 
sal, with her dark eyes eloquent with emotion, and her placid 
features lighted by a gentle smile of welcome, held forth her 
hand to the lonely student, whose heart thrilled as in other 
days when he listened to her voice, and beat ever quicker, 
until at the marriage altar its calm, low accents lulled him 
into holy peace evermore. 

In the neighborhood of Glenary Harry Cunningham has 
built him a beautiful Italian-like villa, and from the old 
drawing-room windows you can see its white walls. Each 
day a slender figure bounds down the avenue leading thither 
from the old gray house ; and each day Harry Cunningham 
is seen upon the piazza, prepared to meet and welcome his 
expected guest. 

" Florence, my darling," he will say, with a voice of love ; 
and Annie's daughter, tossing back her rich, dark curls, will 
smile upon him his own dead wife's sunny smile. Then, hand 
in hand, they pass on to the church-yard, gathering flowers 
as they go, to lay on the graves of the dead ! 
9 



LOVE. 



I THOUGHT that Love was dead ; my heart his grave ; 

Enfolded in the pall of stricken hopes, 
And strewn with memories too sad to save. 

Upon his breast those mystic flowers that ope 
In the dark night I pressed with tender care, 

And flecked with evergreens and immortelles 
The quenchless glory of his golden hair ; 

But yet he slumbered, heeding not their spells. 

Then I wept over him such tears as fall 

From the dew-laden lids of early Spring, 
When, tremulous with woe, we hear her call 

Soft whispering breezes and bright beams to bring 
To the lorn earth new fragrance and new bloom, 

AYatching all prayerfully his closed eyes 
For such faint, violet flushings as illume 

Her slow awakening from Death's disguise. 

Still, pale and motionless, he lay ; no thrill 

Answered the fervor of my fond caress, 
As, with a wild and sorrow-frenzied will, 

I whispered o'er old words of tenderness. 
Like the soft light of morning on the snow. 

In roseate hues upon that cold, wan brow 
Fell the warm coloring of my own heart's glow ; 

But the chill lips gave back no echoing vow. 



LOVE. 99 

Alone ! I cried, in my great misery, 

But for this fearful burden that I bear, 
This palsied joy, this frigid mystery ; 

Answer me, Father, — thou that hearest prayer ! — 
If thou canst hear, in this dead atmosphere — 

Is there no solace for a woe like mine, 
From the cold phantom that has lured me here ? 

Weary and worn, I seek thy love divine. 

A murmur like the far, tumultuous throe 

Of prisoned waves that struggle to be free. 
Bound by stern cerements of ice and snow 

'Neath the chill bosom' of an Arctic sea, 
Rippled the silence of that tranced air ; 

The blanched lips quivered, that so long had lain 
Still to the passion of my earthly prayer. 

And the low music woke to a triumphal strain. 

Through the cold cerements, so tightly pressed 

Over the stainless whiteness of that form. 
Clasping their darkness close about his breast. 

Shone, soft as stars that tremble through the storm, 
Faint, silvery gleams, with that sweet music's swell 

Kindling and deepening, till their glowing light 
Melted the darkness, like a holy spell. 

That veiled the pallid sleeper from my sight. 

Smiling upon me, through the ambient air. 

He woke once more, my beautiful, mine own ; 
A halo raying from his golden hair. 

Upon his breast, for flowers, my hand had strewn 
Lilies of light, and buds of amaranth bloom. 

0, sorrowing heart, pure love shall conquer death ! 
Then, when the heavy shroud of earthly gloom 

Stifles its pulse, lift it to God for breath. 



THE PRIMA DONNA; 

OR, MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 



Be tliou still! 



Enough to know is given ; 
Clouds, winds and stars, their part fulfil, — 
Thine is to trust in Heaven.'* 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! " What a merry laugh it was ! How joy- 
ous and care-free it rang out upon the summer air, from the 
brow of a cliff overlooking Newport beach, where gathered the 
crowd of bathers for their morning bath ! " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
and again it rang free and clear, as a young face bent 
down over the very verge of the cliff, where the untrodden 
grass, raising itself, concealed all but the dark, beaming eyes, 
fair, low brow, and clustering curls, of a face, whether belong- 
ing to a boy or girl, it was difficult for the cause of all that 
merriment to decide, save by the wave of a blue sash pennon- 
like on the wind. Boyhood, however, boasts of no signal so 
graceful ; and the gazer forgot the white spray which dashed 
so maliciously over him, as he stood on the rocks below, with 
his cane, reed-like, but for its golden handle and quaint 
device, toying with the floating sea-weed and tossing shells. 

The fog, which had hung heavily all the morning over the 
beach, was rising, as the meridian rays of an August sun took 
the azure fields of heaven. 

" Fair Maid of the Mist," commenced the youth, doffing 
his white Panama, as the blue signal swelled on the breeze ; 
but, ere he could conclude the apostrophe which he had begun, 



THE PRIJIA donna; OR, MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 101 

down came a whole shower of golden buttercups, from the little 
white hand above, upon his upraised countenance, and once 
more the wild " ha ! ha ! " as the recumbent figure rose erect, 
and sprang away, with flying step, followed by Brian Vernon, 
in eager pursuit. 

On, onward sped Brian over the broad field, peering over 
rocks and walls, while, all the time, the object of his boy-like 
chase crouched silently in the shadow of a clump of wild rose- 
trees, her earnest gaze, with a half-frightened, half-laughing 
expression, bent upon him. But the carriages were rolling 
back from the beach, and Brian Vernon paused so close to the 
tall rose-tree, that the breeze which lifted the soft hair from 
his brow was laden with the fragrance of the budding flowers 
thereon. For a moment or more he stood there erect, his 
hat ofi", while with his handkerchief he brushed away the 
heavy drops of perspiration standing bead-like on his brow. 
Yet something there was in the soft, dreamy eloquence of 
those dark hazel eyes, which fascinated the young girl, and 
which afterwards made her unheedful of Nurse Cathy's " O, 
Miss Joya ! look at the pretty muslin all grass-stained ! " 

" Hush, Cathy, hush ! don't scold, -— it will put it all out 
of my head ; and I don't wish, Cathy, to forget it, — it was so 
very funny ! " And then she went on to tell how she was 
sitting on the clifi", while mamma was bathing ; how a gentle- 
man, too, was sitting on the rocks below, watching the dancing 
waves, until one, at length, rolled so suddenly and maliciously 
over him as to make her laugh aloud ; but she omitted the 
shower of buttercups, and the subsequent chase in the fields, 
for she feared that Cathy — the grave, decorous Cathy — 
might chide her. 

But when Mrs. Allison entered her child's room that eve- 
ning to give her the good-night kiss, ere she slept, and she 
herself joined the crowd below, Joya wound her arm about 
her mother's neck ; who, heedless of the crushed folds of the 
9=^ 



102 THE PRIMA DONNA ; OR, 

rich evening dress, remained quietly upon the low couch as 
the child spoke in the sweet, low tones so dear to her ear. 

" I could not sleep, mamma, without telling you all about 
it, — it was so droll, was it not ? " she questioned, after relat- 
ing the adventures of the morning. " But what did he mean 
by speaking to me ? Don't you think I am tall enough for 
people to be a little polite to me, as they are to you ? " And 
she bent her head backward with a certain proud grace, that 
was wont, years afterwards, to send a deeper thrill through 
other hearts than that of her fond mother. And yet Joya 
Allison was not what the world calls beautiful. Her mouth 
was too wide, though the lips were richly colored, the smile 
that wreathed them full of the spirit's sunshine ; her cheek was 
pale, when no emotion awoke the electric life-current within ; 
but her dark, rich curls, brilliant eyes, and bird-like grace of 
gesture, were fascinating in the extreme. A stranger could 
not appreciate her loveliness; only when that heart-smile 
beamed upon her lip, and she was speaking in accents tuned 
to the harmony of the pure, high spirit within, could any one 
have a true perception of her character. 

" But an't you too tall to shower buttercups on a strang- 
er ? " answered the mother, in slight accents of rebuke. 

" He did not look like a stranger. His eyes are like your 
own, only more earnest like. Perhaps, mamma, we knew 
each other before we came to live in this world, and I remem- 
ber him." 

There was ever a maturity of thought in the girl's fancies, 
which would have fallen oddly on a stranger's ear ; but Mrs. 
Allison was wont to listen to the strange, mysterious feelings 
woven into words, as they swept over the imagination of the 
child, ohe deemed it well to welcome and receive her confi- 
dence. She loved, moreover, to listen to her thus, in the 
quietude of the evening, as she lay upon her pillow, building 
airy castles ; it amused and interested her ; and she encour- 
aged the child in ike, spirit-weavings, for in the frail woof she 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 103 

wove many a glittering golden thread. She forgot that with 
the poetry of these unchild-like reveries there was blent much 
that was perilous to the future serenity of the young dreamer. 
She was not growing up to womanhood in the healthful quie- 
tude of serene childhood, her spirit strengthening in sunshine, 
to bear the after storms of maturer life. She was weaving a 
link between herself and the spirit world, not of sweet, con- 
fiding prayer, but all imaginative, — brilliant for the fleeting 
hour, — but a thread of doubt and gloom, perchance, for fu- 
ture years. With the impetuosity of an impassioned tem- 
perament she was plunging into the dim mysteries which 
unsettle even the brain of age. 

Her dark eyes had been wont to dilate, from early child- 
hood, when seated quietly for hours on old Cathy's knee, 
listening to the low, awe-struck tone, breathing of white-robed 
forms, gliding through the darkness of eve, or angel faces 
holding watch over sleeping childhood. But the mother was 
young and thoughtless, mingling much in the world's gay 
scenes ; her intense affection for her only child alone winning 
her from its festivities. Even now the music of the band 
below was stealing on her ear, calling her to the fluttering 
crowd in the gay saloon ; but she lingered long, listening to 
Joya, smoothing her dark curls, and answering her with lov- 
ing words. 

It was the girl's twelfth birth-day, and the mother, glanc- 
ing hopefully down ^the shadowy aisles of futurity, pictured 
the destiny of the favored child of love and affluence. Soft, 
serene, was that summer night. " Was it a bright prophecy 
of the future?" the mother, with almost tearful eyes, ques- 
tioned of silence, as the child sank asleep, and the waves of 
the ocean murmured sullenly in the distance. '^ 



*' Ha ! ha ! ha ! " Five years ago that August morning, 
rang out that same silvery laugh at Newport, only louder, 
more deep-toned and musical. A slight, dark girl, in a black 



104 THE PRIMA DONNA ; OR, v 

habit, beaver hat and shadowy plume, stands upon the piazza 
of the Ocean House. She has just sprung from the saddle, 
and the servant leads away the spirited and beautiful horse 
which has been caracoling for hours beneath its graceful and 
fearless rider, where the white spray glitters in the soft, warm 
sunlight lying on Newport beach. There are many watching 
her every movement ; for Joya Allison is the belle of the 
season. Other stars grew dim at her appearing, and, as fades 
the evening light before the orb of day, so paled the beauty 
of the late reigning belle, Ellen Ballou, when, at a late hour, 
one July night, Joya Allison entered the saloon of the Ocean 
House, the glow deep upon her cheek, and light radiating from 
her eyes. The white folds of her costly brocade swept the 
flower-woven carpet, and jewels glittered in the soft, clustering 
curls. The brilliancy of her loveliness, all joyous and full of 
exuberant life as then, won the casual glance ; the heart-smile 
flitting over those fliir features attracted the lengthened gaze ; 
while the brilliant repartee, coming from those lips, chained 
the fancy, speaking her no fleeting, evanescent flower, but an 
enduring remembrance, which would linger in the heart when 
the shadow of her absence was upon it. 

As Joya's laugh fell upon the ear, a gentleman reading 
within an apartment opening upon the piazza arose, and 
looked through the blinds which concealed him from view. 
He had that morning arrived at the hotel, and already the 
attractions of the belle had been discussed in his hearing. 
Therefore, there was much of curiosity in his glance, which 
deepened to admiration as he gazed ; and, pausing abruptly, 
he advanced hastily out into the hall to meet the object of so 
much attention. One gloved hand gathered up the sweeping 
folds of Joya's habit, and the other just touched the arm of 
the gentleman who accompanied her. But she glanced not 
up ; the long, dark lashes swept the crimsoned cheek with 
girlish diffidence. There was nothing of the hauteur of a, 
successful belle; no coquettish seeking of the admiring glances 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 105 

which would fain have met her own. And he who had ad- 
vanced with the rest withdrew, slightly rebuked by that femi- 
nine shrinking from the stranger's idle gaze. 

" She is something more than a mere fashionable woman ; 
there 's heart and soul there ! " he whispered to himself, as 
once more he took up the volume which he had been reading. 
But he no longer turned the leaves at regular intervals ; he 
was glancing over heart-records within, where a sunny, child- 
ish brow was pictured with laughing eyes and waving curls. 

Memory was leading him back, through intervening years, 
when, a boy-student, he had chased what seemed but a beauti- 
ful phantom of his imagination (for never since had he looked 
on her) over the green fields bordering the ocean, not far off. 

It was Brian Yernon ; and less changed by time than Joya 
Allison. He had become taller, more manly, but still pecu- 
liarly graceful in his bearing, — with a nervous, kindling eye, 
which had been otherwise soft and sad, in the extreme, in its 
expression. 

But the morning was wearing away ; as he looked up he 
caught a glimpse of Mrs. Ballou's carriage rolling onward to 
the beach, — the golden-haired heiress, folded in her mantle, 
resting upon the cushions, — and, drawing his hat over his 
brow, he went forth to join them, with the rest of the bathers, 
for they were old acquaintances. 

Many a bright glance followed him from screening "Vene- 
tian blind, and many a heart throbbed with increased emotion 
as he passed with soft smile and courtly brow. No human 
being, to have looked upon him, so graceful, so genial-looking, 
so serene, with a smile that would have mocked the shining 
summer sun, would have dreamed that he carried within him a 
mad, wayward, uncontrolled current of scepticism and doubt 
of his fellow-beings, which was to mar to him life's sunshine, 
as a turbulent mountain torrent sweeping through a quiet 
vale breaks its calm repose. That very flashing, kindling 
expression betrayed the want of a will which should subdue. 



106 THE PRIMA donna; OR, 

with its unfaltering calmness, emotions too dazzling to the 
casual glance in their impulsive grace of expression, but with 
which there mingled also too much of an atheistical doubt of 
that honor and goodness with which, infinitesimal as the degree 
may be, our Creator has endowed every immortal spirit. 

The sun was piling up in the western sky, fold after fold, 
the gorgeous drapery it had worn during the day, while the 
cool sea-breeze, setting inward, imparted a delicious freshness 
to the air. Luxurious equipages were rolling hotel-wards, 
and groups clustered to gaze upon the fashion, the beauty, 
and the costly attire, of their occupants. 

As Brian Vernon, who had been walking on the beach, 
drew near to the hotel, he glanced up to the upper piazza. 
A lady was seated there upon a low seat, only the upper por- 
tion of her face visible, as it rested upon the balustrade. A 
slight start, an earnest gaze into the large eyes looking down 
upon him, aryi a smile stole over his lips, a smile full of joy- 
ous exultation, as the beautiful face of Joya Allison was 
raised, while the sun's beams poured a halo of radiance about 
her. The dream of years was realized ; the phantom which 
had haunted his boyhood stood before him no longer visionary, 
but the embodiment of radiant womanhood in its earliest 
dawn. 

The lights were extinguished in the saloon. No longer the 
rich melody of the far-famed band, which deep into the night 
had answered the ocean's murmur, went echoing on the even- 
ing breeze. 

But from the casements of an apartment in the suite occu- 
pied by Mrs. Allison there yet gleamed a light, and a 
shadow rested on the curtain. Joya Allison was seated 
there alone, with the snowy folds of crape yet trembling 
beneath their rich embroidery which she had laid aside. So, 
also, had she laid aside the memory of the brilliant evening 
hours which had passed. The color glowed less deeply on 
her cheek, but the faint smile about her lip was sweeter than 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 107 

when it had graced the sparkling bon-mot; for, alone in the 
silence of night, she was holding communion with her own 
spirit. 

A table was drawn to her side, and a shaded lamp rested 
thereon, with a tall vase of Bohemian glass, full of fra- 
grant water-lilies. But the rays from the lamp were falling 
over an open volume, as her pen wandered down the white 
page. It was the daily record of passing events, filled with 
the revealings of a heart peculiarly pure and sensitive. 

" I am here," she wrote, " in this vast hotel, the summer 
home of Fashion ; and, all day long, and all the night-time, 
the surf thunders on the beach, as in mockery of the strife, 
the constant murmur after supremacy, here. And now Heaven 
wears her jewels, while Earth's diamonds dim before their 
radiance. They who have toiled with intense longing to super- 
sede all others are, in their turn, outvied. Beautiful Nature, 
serene in her infinite majesty, smiles calmly down upon the 
turbulent waves of Art. 0, Fashion ! thy glory is o'ershad- 
owed, thy omnipotence is veiled ! 0, Wealth ! could they 
but realize it, spirits which burn with unrest, vain aspirations, 
beneath this broad roof, soft and refreshing as the dew-drop 
to the thirsting flower would it fall upon their hearts. 

" But I also am conscious that I am not without much of 
earthly ambition. "When the cup of adulation is proffered, 
alas ! I drink deeply, and my soul becomes filled with delirious 
passion. Father ! mother ! you have not done well in plung- 
ing your child into this vortex of mad folly ; you have erred 
in your exceeding love and pride. I am not strong, as you 
think me : it requires all the influence of this calm hour to 
subdue me. 

" When that intoxicating music swells upon my ear, when 
gay companions crowd around me, my guardian spirit veils 
its face in sadness, for I forget myself. I am no longer Joya 
the serene, glad girl, but Joya the proud, vain, worldly 
woman. Yet when the spell is broken I see no beauty in the 



108 THE PRIMA donna; OR, 

face wliicli memory recalls, — a woman's face flushed with 
triumph. They who have called me beautiful would turn 
away from these pallid cheeks and dimmed eyes ; for I am 
myself now more worthy of those who I feel are watching 
over me. Though no visible presence is here, yet there are 
angels around me filling my soul with humility and penitence. 

" Father in heaven, thou art thrilling thy child, thy peni- 
tent child's heart with peace. It beat less wildly in the 
saloon to-night ; it paid less heed to the music and the dance ; 
it forgot the diamonds clasping the folds of her costly robe. 
Something brighter was with her. Ah ! why does that gaze, 
that earnest, brightening gaze, haunt me thus ? 

" When dear old Cathy died, I thought with her passed 
away mysteries unfathomed in my childish grasp. I thought 
contact with the busy world had chased away the phantom 
dreams which were with me in childhood. It is a glad, holy 
faith that nestles to my heart, this belief in angels' watchful 
care ; I would not put from my bosom the thought that the 
clear eyes of our lost darling, our brother Willie, are ever on 
me ; but, ! there are times when a rushing step pursues me, 
a cold breath fans my cheek, and a weight of woe comes o'er 
me that chills me as the presence of something fearful. 

" I would, sweet mother, that when in other years you won 
me in the early evening to open my heart to you, you had 
cheeked this then premature desire to fathom the mysteries of 
life ; for my child's brain lacked strength to meet the spirit's 
curiosity — it has unnerved me for realities. I am less fitted 
to struggle with trials and care ; but, Father, with thy aid, I 
will be strong, and wrestle with my weakness. It is but idle 
flincy ; I will put from me the memory of the glance which has 
haunted me ; and, if called by a nearer knowledge of their owner 
to do so, I will look into the clear depths of those dark eyes, 
and seek there to fathom, not the mysterious link which has 
bound me to their memory. I will — " Suddenly her pen 
ceased to move, for something brushed heavily against the 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 109 

folds of the curtain. It floated back, and a bunch of flowers, 
fresh gathered, glittering with dew, fell at her feet. She 
raised them, bent over them, and when again she lifted her 
head, on her lip there glittered a heavy dew-drop. She wrote 
no more that night. 

Many glances rested on the crimson buds, woven among the 
belle's dark curls, the succeeding day ; but a stranger's gaze 
alone had power to deepen the color upon her cheek. Costly 
gems had been laid aside, for those frail, perishing buds. 

No ray of the midday sun shining so bright stole through 
the closed Yenetian blinds, but a soft, mellow light flooded 
the magnificent saloon of the Ocean House. Groups of ladies 
and gentlemen were waltzing to the music swelling in rich 
bursts of melody to the stuccoed ceiling, as a skilful hand 
swept the keys of the piano. But there were two who were 
seated apart from the rest, and took no heed of the gay ones 
around ; and both were young in years, with the stamp of 
intellect on their brows, and light born of high thoughts 
flashing in their eyes. 

The elder — the gentleman — had wheeled a deeply-cush- 
ioned arm-chair aside, so that no one but himself could mark 
the ever-varying expression of Joya Allison's face. A knot 
of gentlemen had at first clustered about her, as they would 
gather about a queen upon her throne ; but, as the moments 
wore on, and she paid little heed to the soft flatteries coined 
for her ear, one by one they had departed, leaving her listen- 
ing, with earnest attention, to Brian Vernon. 

Ever and anon, in the pauses of the music, the low, eloquent 
voice fell upon the listener's ear ; and they turned aside, in 
evident chagrin, leaving the beautiful girl to him who charmed 
her fancy with his earnest words. And yet these words were 
not of idle compliment ; his glance alone spoke his homage, 
and the yet lower, more reverential tones of his voice, when 
he addressed her. 

" I have been long endeavoring to recall where we have 
10 



110 THE PRIMA donna; OR, 

before met Mr. Vernon. Held I to my childhood's faith, I 
should say in a life which has preceded this ; but when you 
are looking at me thus earnestly, there is something in your 
glance which stirs the waves of memory, bringing back the 
murmur of tones, long ago heard, ringing on my ear." This 
was said in a soft, questioning voice, as Joya Allison rested 
her cheek on her hand, and looked calmly up to him ; and he 
smiled down into those cg-lm, thoughtful eyes, faintly, but with 
such joy and earnestness that the color grew warmer on her 
cheek ; and, all the while smiling, he drew forth a tiny pack- 
age, taking from thence a half-dozen withered buttercups, 
tied together with a knot of grass, and held them up to view. 
There came a troubled look to her eyes, as she received them 
and held them to the light. 

"Buttercups, are they not? " she questioned. 

*' Yes, Joya, buttercups ! " 

A warm, bright blush, a sudden start, an immediate retreat, 
told him that the scene on the beach, five years previous, was 
unforgotten. 

He watched her graceful figure, with its proud carriage, 
cross the saloon and disappear ; then he also arose and passed 
out, but not to seek her. Joya Allison had bowed her face 
upon the dressing-table, before which she knelt, while tears 
rained through her clasped fingers, and the white folds of her 
dress trembled with the passionate emotion of the moment ; 
yet the face covered by these slender fingers was glowing in 
its deep heart-joy, though tear-drops falling drenched the 
warm smiles. 

There was a low knock on the door of her chamber. She 
sprang up, dashed aside her tears, and the next moment a 
servant placed a small package in her hands. She opened it, 
and a sprig of exquisitely-wrought golden buttercups, with 
emerald leaves, lay before her. 

" Wind them in your hair, Joya, if still I may wear the 
ivithered ones upon my heart,'' was written hastily in the 



MISTS OP THE SPIRIT. Ill 

note which accompanied it ; and, twining the glittering spray 
in her dark curls, Joya Allison returned to the saloon. 

Light mists were flitting over the moon's disk, while the 
stars looked all the brighter for the fleecy clouds from which 
they were peering, as, with a low murmur, like that of a 
weary spirit, wave after wave sank upon the white-sanded 
beach. 

But neither clouded moon, radiant stars, or sounding sea, 
won the thoughts of Brian Vernon from the young girl by his 
side, as they walked slowly along the clifi", overlooking the 
beach. 

It was early in the evening, and the music of the band, 
speaking of the dance and the lighted saloon, stole upon them 
at intervals. The sea-breeze stirred the soft curls resting upon 
Joya's brow, and floated them back from the lovely face on 
which the lover's gaze was riveted. As he spoke, the small 
hand was slightly inclined towards him, the spray of golden 
buttercups glittering in the moonlight, while her step was 
languid, for he was speaking in accents which thrill the heart 
of woman. He had offered her the priceless treasure of man- 
hood's love, and into his keeping she had given her own hap- 
piness. By both a trust was accepted of more than earthly 
value; but they had not paused to question themselves 
whether they had strength to protect from blight that which 
they had accepted. They gave themselves no time to ponder, 
to deliberate ; they yielded unfearing to the sweet, impas- 
sioned impulse of the moment ; for it was of -joy. The beauty 
of the treasure which they had taken to their hearts was 
apparent to them ; but whether in its true significance they 
realized their vast responsibility as the guardian each of the 
future weal or woe of an immortal spirit, time alone would 
determine. But in the eye of Heaven a bond was made 
between Brian Vernon and Joya Allison which required not 
a legal form to make holy and indissoluble to the hearts which 
had created it, — a link in the interchange of affection, which, 



112 THE PRIMA donna; OR, 

were its true import understood, no after circumstance could 
render null. Holy and indissoluble, as in the eye of God, 
in their own spirit should be the vow of the betrothed, as the 
bridal which the voice gives utterance to at the altar in the 
presence of man. For are not our Creator and the angels in 
heaven more revered witnesses than frail, erring mortals? 
— is not the heart's murmur more sacred than the voice 
speaking its conceptions ? 

" I would, Joya, that there were no dark threads woven 
in the life which I consecrate to your happiness, and about 
which your love weaves so pure and bright ! " — The fair face 
was raised questioningly to his. There was a shadow upon 
it, never before seen by her ; a chill came over her, and she 
sighed involuntarily ; but, in the earnestness of his revery, he 
heeded it not. 

It was one of Brian Vernon's dark moments. These would 
steal upon him like a cloud over the sun, shrouding him in 
gloom. It was singular, however, in an hour of happiness 
like that, to admit the dark, doubting thought, while the clear, 
unfaltering assent to his earnest prayer for love yet lingered 
on the ear, and the blush born of these words glowed upon 
her cheek. But it was even so, — dark, palpable gloom stole 
over him. 

" She loves you better, that you are her equal," whispered 
the tempter. — "Brian," commenced the sweet, low voice; 
and, with a sudden effort, he cast off the weird-like spell 
which bound him, smiling, as though he would rob the strange 
sentence escaping him of its coldness and heartlessness, — "I 
would not, truthful, beautiful, as you are, have dared to love 
you, Joya, had you been a poor girl, — never ! " 

To his listener's ear it seemed as though the very wave 
which beat on the shore took up the refrain, answering, 
" Never, never ! " She drew herself somewhat more erect, 
while even by that dim light he could perceive an expression 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 113 

of disappointment settle down upon her lip ; but he continued, 
sorrowfully, 

" Hear me first, dear Joya, ere a shadow falls upon your 
love for me. In early life I was taught a bitter lesson ; lips 
fair as your own smiled in deceit, a voice even richer-toned 
breathed a daily falsehood. I have witnessed an honorable, 
manly heart crushed by a woman's guile and heartlessness. 
There was, years ago, a fair and seemingly gentle girl ; she 
proved false to her own heart's love, and feigned affection for 
one who trusted her. But his worldly position alone made 
him to her desirable, and when her object was attained she 
scrupled not to cast aside the mask of concealment she had 
worn, and exhibited to his astounded gaze her perfidy. 
Joya, that woman was very near to me. With my father's 
kiss of love I drank in doubt of woman's truth. It has gained 
upon me. 0, Joya, wilt thou not dispel with thy holy faith 
this heart-cloud ? I had not, for thine own sweet sake, dared 
proffer thee affection, where the demon of suspicion might 
creep in ; but in wealth and position we are equal, — you, in 
your beauty and goodness, as far above me as yonder star 
shining in heaven. When the evil spirit within makes of me 
a madman, there can be no doubt of you." 

Joya Allison had listened to that strange, passionate declar-, 
ation with mingled feelings of joy and sorrow; — joy, that 
she was permitted to minister to his peace ; sorrow, that such 
a shadow rested upon his fate. The story of his mother, 
which he alluded to, was known to her ; for she knew that 
mother had separated from his father when Brian was very 
young, content while her income remained undiminished, little 
heeding her lone husband and deserted child. With Joya, 
that knowledge pleaded Brian Vernon's excuse. 

In the conscious strength of her own position, she could 

serenely look upon the future ; but hours afterwards, in the 

silence of night, a faint shudder crept over her, and she 

trembled as she realized how full of peril had been the path 

10=^ 



114 THE PRIMA donna; OR, 

leading to her present happiness, had it not been for the now 
first-prized wealth and attention which was her own. 

There were tear-drops of joy and emotion glistening on the 
lashes that lay upon her cheek as she sank asleep, but the 
deepening glow thereon dried them all. 

A long night of dreams was hers, — flitting rays of sun- 
shine and hazy clouds, — but at length, wrapt in profound 
slumber, she dreamt of an angel far off in a distant flood 
of sunlight, looking pityingly on her ; but instead of heed- 
ing her imploring prayer, and drawing nearer unto her, 
further and yet further, half shrouded in its floating rays of 
light, it receded. Yet in the darkness about another face 
was visible, and at times it was very like Brian Vernon's, only 
cold and stern ; and as the sunlight faded from her presence, 
it frowned, and grew colder, sterner yet. She whispered his 
name, and he stretched forth his cold hand, and laid it on her 
heart. Never again it beat with its olden joy ; sleeping or 
waking, a chill fear filled the spot where a thrill of warm hope 
had lain. There was a low, distinct sound of sobbing about her; 
she echoed it back faintly in her dreaming woe, and awoke. It 
was not all a dream ; a faint sobbing was echoing there in her 
silent chamber; pale and tearful, her mother was seated by 
her side, with an open letter in her hand. 

With a wild fear, the girl sprang up. " 0, mamma, what 
is it ? My dear, dear father ! " 

" Hush, Joya, darling ! he is well." With a deep sigh of 
relief, she sank back upon her pillow, for in her sudden terror 
she had feared something terrible might have happened to him. 

" But who is ill, mamma ? " she continued. She did not 
dream, poor child, of the possibility of any other misfortune 
than that of illness or death occurring to them; but the 
mother answered, tearfully, 

" We have become very poor, Joya. Your father has been 
most unfortunate ; nearly our all is swept away." 

" No, no, dearest mamma ; neither yourself or dear papa 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 115 

must feel yourselves poor, while you have health and each 
other, with your child to love; no more than she is poor, 
though penniless, with you to care for, and — " Alas ! why 
did she grow suddenly pale and tremble ? What bitter secret 
thought hushed the sweet, cheering voice, and bowed her 
shivering, as though the hand of death was upon her ? 

"My child, my Joya, is it indeed so terrible to you? 
Ah ! I had feared it ! " murmured the mother, bending down, 
and bathing with her hot tears the cold, white face of her 
child. But even as she wept there came a glow to the pale 
cheek ; her dark eyes beamed with a sunny ray of hope, and 
her lip curled half in scorn of her own heart, which had, 
for the moment, trembled with the memory of her lover's 
words. 

" 0, no, dear mamma ! it is not for myself I grieve, — 
it will give me no sorrow : but for my father's sake. To- 
gether we will teach him to look upon it but as trifling com- 
pared with many another grief which might have come upon 
us. When shall we go home? " 

Fresh tears started to the dim eyes of the mother, for their 
old home, she knew, was theirs no longer ; but so hopefully, 
so cheeringly, did Joya speak of the future, that, after all, 
she began to look upon the great change before them as only 
one of life's mishaps, and as almost immaterial to their future 
happiness. 

And no longer weeping, but with a quiet cheerfulness that 
surprised even the young consoler of her grief, after having 
arranged for their departure that very day, after dinner, 
Mrs. Allison left her child. Joya had no time to think, for 
her maid came in immediately after her mother. The girl 
wondered at her young mistress' sadness ; for, in spite of all 
her efforts, Joya felt depressed, and her expression contrasted 
vividly with the joyousness of the preceding day. Her toilet 
was simple in the extreme, for she felt instinctively that rich 
laces and India muslin morning robes- were no longer becom- 



116 THE miMA donna; or, 

ing to her altered fortunes ; but the soft, dark curls fell just 
as becomingly over the beautiful brow, and the plain white 
folds of her dress floated as gracefully about the symmetrical 
figure. 

The wife of the ruined merchant lacked courage to en- 
counter the curious glances which she felt would meet her 
now wherever she moved. She pleaded indisposition ; but 
gazed admiringly on the placid countenance and unmoved 
bearing of Joya, longing for strength to imitate her example. 
So alone Joya Allison descended to the breakfast-table. It 
was somewhat late, and the room was well filled. Her seat 
at the table was more than half-way down the long dining- 
hall, and as she passed on many glances followed her, as they 
were wont to do ; but now there was something less of admi- 
ration, more of curiosity, in their expression. There were a 
few elderly gentlemen, who looked troubled and interested as 
she passed them ; for they were business men. And there 
were also young and beautiful girls, who, from their stations 
in society, should have given evidence of better breeding, 
who ran their eyes with a half-disdainful expression over the 
altered toilet of her who, in the glory of her beauty, had 
often o'ershadowed them. 

But there was too much of pure womanly dignity in the 
heart of Joya Allison to comprehend any such manifestation 
of envy or malice ; and the only thing she noticed was the 
omission of a certain moustached gentleman, who was wont 
to linger near the door, and, with officious haste, throw it 
wide open for the admission of the belle and heiress. And 
that alone accounted for the faint, amused smile on her lip 
as she passed him upon her entrance. 

But when, shortly after taking her seat, on looking up she 
saw Brian Vernon enter, she smiled and motioned him to 
occupy the vacant seat of Mrs. Allison by her side. He 
joined her instantly, with a pleased expression, and his man- 



MISTS OP THE SPIRIT. 117 

ner was of unwonted deference and courteousness. She made 
no allusion to the news that morning received. 

In the richest evening toilet, in her most joyous hour, that 
young girl never looked so lovely and fiiscinating as she did 
that summer morning, with a more than ordinary emotion 
filling her heart, and shining through her soft, lustrous eyes ; 
smiling occasionally, as though a half-smothered happiness 
would ripple the deep waves of feeling, and gleam an instant 
on the surface, yet, withal, a slight shade of care upon her 
brow. 

But one was casting, at intervals, furtive glances from 
where she was seated, a little further up, on the opposite side 
of the table ; and the light blue eyes glittered serpent-like 
beneath the long sweeping lashes, that, whenever Brian Ver- 
non's eye wandered to her, drooped timidly on her fair cheek. 
It was Ellen Ballou, next to Joya Allison the most beautiful 
woman at the Ocean House. She was slightly below the 
medium height of woman, very fair, with a delicate rose light 
on her cheek, and a profusion of bright golden curls ; and 
she was graceful and childlike in manner and expression when 
her lashes drooped. But the peculiarly glistening blue eyes, 
when opened wide, imparted an expression far from childlike 
to her countenance. Like Joya Allison, she was an only 
child, and her father a gentleman of boundless wealth. 

On the morning of which we speak she was more joyous 
than was her wont ; and many were listening admiringly to 
the sweet, glad laugh that more than once escaped her, and 
whose low tones stole even upon Brian Yernon's ear. As he 
arose, at length, and offered his companion his arm, with the 
intention of passing on to the saloon, Ellea Ballou also joined 
them, in company with several others. She was unusually 
affable, and wherever Joya Allison moved there also followed 
the seemingly joyous, light-hearted Ellen. There was no 
escaping from this companionsip, for the much-desired tete-a- 
tete with her lover, until he himself very pointedly requested 



118 THE PRIMA DONNA ; OR, 

her to walk with him. She went up to her room to tie on 
her hat, and tell Mrs. Allison that she would not long be 
absent ; and Brian Yernon, in the interval, paced to and fro 
the saloon, with the golden-haired syren by his side, chatting 
of Ihe gay scenes in their pleasant summer home. Although 
he appeared to listen courteously, he in truth paid little heed 
to her words, until, at length, the picture in the tall mirror 
before him caught his eye. There was a graceful form gliding 
over the flower-woven carpet, with long floating curls of gold 
glittering in the sunlight, and a fair face raised to his own, — 
but that, he fancied, was far from pleasing, — while the more 
repellant it became to him, for the expression there grew 
gloomy, even morose. He was unconscious that the lids, then 
drooping disdainfully, shaded eyes that were powerful to thrill 
the heart with their beauty ; and the smile, so beaming when 
it rested there, graced not his lip in that moment of self- 
depreciation. Still, there was the graceful figure, the high- 
bred air,; but, in the bitterness of a suddenly clouded heart, 
it atoned not to him for the want of mere feature-beauty. 

A dark, sinister thought intruded itself upon him. In his 
injustice to himself he became unjust to another. How could 
the fascinating Joya, with her ardent admiration of the beau- 
tiful, her poetic fancy, conceive afiection for him ? And just 
then the voice by his side spoke of Mr. Allison's misfortunes. 

" Ah ! are you aware of it ? " he answered, carelessly. 
" Miss Allison has not herself spoken of it." 

" No, to you, Mr. Yernon, perhaps not ; and yet, she was 
very gay, for one in misfortune, yesterday," Ellen said, 
thoughtfully, but significantly. 

He started, as though a serpent had stung him, and turned 
abruptly from his companion. The white hand clutched, with 
convulsive grasp, the fragile lace shrouding the window by 
which he stood, his face averted from her gaze, while dark 
thoughts and bitter filled his heart, crushing out his late warm 
hopes. She had k7iow?i it, then, when she listened to his 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. ' 119 

avowal of love. She was conscious then pf altered fortunes, 
but she could smile sunnily, and beckon him, the rich man, to 
her side ; for she was secure in his affection from feeling its 
effects. And now the enigma was solved, in time, thank God, 
to save himself from the rock upon which his father's happi- 
ness had been wrecked. His resolution was taken. With 
iron-like will, down into the depths of his heart he thrust his 
misery, and turned to Ellen Ballou. 

A group had clustered around Ellen, but she was watching 
him in seeming sorrow. He approached, and begged her to 
ride with him. She assumed an air of astonishment, and he 
pressed her to consent. She did so, and retired to arrange 
her habit, promising speedily to return. As she came down 
she met a servant coming out of Mrs. Allison's apartment 
with a note in his hand; she stopped him, to ask some trifling 
question, and her eye detected, at a glance, that the note was 
addressed to Brian Vernon. She immediately took it from 
the servant, saying, " I am going to Mr. Yernon, — give it to 
me." When alone she opened it, though her cheek flushed 
with the consciousness of the ignominy of the deed ; but it 
died away, and, with a bitter smile, she thrust it into her 
pocket. 

A half-hour had passed, and still Joya came not. She was 
weeping with her mother, — weeping over another dispatch 
that had followed the one which was received the previous 
night, announcing the dangerous illness of Mr. Allison. She 
was not forgetful of her lover in her affliction ; and she wrote 
to him a few hurried lines, explaining the cause of her delay, 
and requesting him to come to the private parlor, .as she and 
her mother were preparing for immediate departure. They 
were to leave in the eleven o'clock boat, and it was but little 
over an hour before the appointed time. At length, after 
many moments of anxious waiting, Joya heard his voice on 
the piazza below ; and she went out upon the balcony opening 
from their room, to look down and motion him to haste. 



120 THE PRIMA DONNA ; OR, 

There was a large group of gentlemen standing before the 
hotel, and several were riding in company down the street 
on horseback. But two horses, beautiful, spirited creatures, 
stood pawing the ground impatiently beneath, and upon the 
back of one Brian Yernon was assisting Ellen Ballou. Ellen 
was looking very lovely in her cap and dark plume, her soft 
curls escaping in bright waves from their confinement. Joya 
glanced around to see who was to accompany her, and sighed 
involuntarily at the recollection of the past, as she remem- 
bered those pleasant rides were no more for her, when Brian 
Yernon himself sprang into the saddle, and the party rode 
onward. They had not proceeded many rods before the girl 
turned half round, and glanced up to the balcony where stood 
the forsaken one, and there was a perceptible gleam of tri- 
umph in her blue eyes. Spell-bound with astonishment, Joya 
Allison stood gazing after the receding form, riding close and 
slowly by her rival's side. But, when they had disappeared, 
one hand stole slowly up from where it hung listless by her 
side, and pressed tightly on her heart, while tears rolled 
slowly down her cheeks, and fell heavily, like rain-drops, upon 
the balustrade. Only her Father in heaven, watching over 
his sorrowing child, could fathom the depth of her woe. She 
had a faint hope that some message explanatory of her 
lover's conduct had been left ; but there was none. As the 
hour wore on she grew restless and feverish; a burning 
desire came over her to see him again, if it were for the last 
time ; but still he returned not. Tlie words which he had 
given utterance to the previous night recurred to her, and the 
chill experienced in the morning pressed upon her waking 
moments. Mrs. Allison grew impatient, for she was fearful 
that they should miss the morning boat. The carriage stood 
at the door, and her mother had gone down a moment. In 
bitter anguish, Joya Allison bowed over the centre-table, and 
left there the golden buttercups, with a few brief parting 
lines. 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 121 

" Mamma can wait for me no longer. I would fain have 
spoken my farewell to you, Mr. Vernon ; but, as it is your 
wish, I submit. These jewels are destined for your bride. 
They are returned to you ; for the poor but proud Joya Allison 
they are no longer appropriate." 

Nearly a quarter of an hour afterwards Brian Vernon and 
Ellen Ballon returned ; and, on learning the departure of Mrs. 
Allison, as Joya had anticipated, Vernon ascended immedi- 
ately to the parlor recently occupied by them, to ascertain if 
there was a note left for him. There was none ; the jewels 
and accompanying note had disappeared. He fistcned the 
door, threw himself upon the sofa, and gave vent to a fierce 
burst of anguish. It was like a tornado sweeping over a 
sunny scene ; it left him cold and seemingly calm. But he 
neither followed the Allisons to New York, nor wrote to 
Joya ; all was apparently over between them. He became 
very gay, and the triumphant belle, whose claims were now 
midisputed, was seen often, at sunset, seated by his side in 
the beautiful, light phaeton which he drove, a veil of rich 
lace thrown over her golden curls, upon which the glittering 
light of the departing sun fell in gorgeous beauty. 

Scarcely a week passed after the departure of Joya from 
Newport, when one afternoon Ellen Ballou appeared before 
Brian Vernon with the spray of golden buttercups in her hair 
which he had given to Joya Allison. In answer to his star- 
tled inquiry as to where she obtained them, she answered, 
quietly, at a certain jeweller's, where she had been attracted 
by their beauty and resemblance to those Miss Allison had 
worn, and which she had admired. That night Brian Ver- 
non sought out the jeweller, to ascertain how they came in his 
possession, for he was confident they were the same he had 
given Joya. They had been disposed of for a comparatively 
low sum, as their owner was anxious to part with them, by 
Miss Allison's maid, who was well known to the gentleman, 
and who had boon left behind to follow them the succeeding 
11 



122 THE PRIMA donna; or, 

day. A suspicion of the girl's guilt never crossed the mind 
of Brian Vernon, and from that hour his constant endeavor 
was to drive all thought of Joya Allison from his heart 
forever. 

In the all-absorbing excitement of her beloved father's 
dangerous illness, Joya found little time to give to the past ; 
but when the wild delirium gave place to a death-like lethargy 
of mind, from which all efforts to awaken the ruined merchant 
proved futile, in Joya's long, silent watches by his side, the 
bitterness of her fate, the hopelessness of her lot, forced it- 
self upon her in vivid contrast with the full reality of the 
happiness which she had lost ; and as day after day wore 
away, and there came no token of remembrance from the 
still-adored one, her spirit quailed and fainted beneath the 
burden imposed upon it, and she too drooped to a bed of un- 
consciousness and protracted illness. But youth and a strong 
constitution triumphed. She awoke to life and its manifold 
duties, strong, firm and tearless, to suffer and endure. But 
the light was dim in her eyes ; for hope had burned low in the 
heart of youth, and gone out. The warm glow of joy flushed 
no longer her cheek. All poetical conceptions, glowing im- 
agery, and girlish dreamings, were at an end, and naught but 
the cold, stern realities of life seemed left for her. But soon 
filial love warmed the chilled heart, and grew into a beau- 
tiful ray of sunshine streaming over her desolate path. 

The old, luxurious residence was given up, with all its 
elegances and most of its comforts ; a simple, almost meagre 
home alone was left to them. But Joya strove earnestly to 
make it light and cheerful to her sorrowing mother, and smit- 
ten father, who had now grown querulous, repining ever, in 
his half unconsciousness, for his old luxuries, and pleading 
often to be taken to his former home. The only thing that 
had any power to soothe him was the music of his child's 
voice as she sang ; apd that voice was one of unwonted 
melody. 



MISTS OF TUB SPIRIT. 123 

One day in the spring, the arm-chair was wheeled before 
an open window through which fell the bright sunlight, and 
the old man reclined therein, while, with her sewing in her 
hand, Joja sat before him, singing a soft Italian air. The 
attention of a passer-by was attracted by the extreme beauty 
of her voice, and he paused a moment to listen. The listener 
proved to be no other than Beneditta, an old Italian music- 
teacher ; and he recognized a cultivated, as well as melodious 
voice, containing something familiar in its tones. Unable to 
repress his curiosity, he approached the window, and unper- 
ceived stood gazing in, beating time softly with his cane to 
the music of the song. After a while the girl, glancing up to 
her father, perceived the stranger; both started with a 
mutual exclamation of surprise, for Beneditta and his old 
pupil, Joya, instantly recognized each other. The next mo- 
ment he entered the apartment, apologizing for his intrusion, 
and explaining the cause. 

Little by little the misfortunes and present embarrassments 
of his old patrons were gleaned from them, and, with many 
kindly expressions of sympathy, he departed. He was an 
old man, and utterly absorbed in his art; and although 
for several years he had relinquished the more laborious 
branches of his profession, he still devoted himself to the 
art which he adored, and for which he had sacrificed the hours 
of youth, manhood and age. 

That day he mused much with himself, and before sunset 
Joya Allison was invited to appear early on the morrow on 
urgent business before him, at the little room where in times 
past he had given instruction, and where he was now busy 
amid those compositions on which were founded his hopes of 
future fame. A brilliant thought had occurred to him ; to 
train the rich, bird-like voice of the young girl to a yet higher 
state of cultivation, and introduce her to the public in an 
opera of his own composing. 

Joya was with him in the morning, and while waiting a 



124 THE PRIMA DONNA ; OK, 

short time, while he concluded some trifling business of the 
moment, her glance wandered over the little cheerless room, 
with its grand piano and tall piles of music-leaves, where 
often, in days passed, she had been in company with the bril- 
liant friends of her school-days ; and her eyes glistened with 
emotion, her pale cheeks glowed, as the old man entered ; 
for joyous memories were busy within her. The musician wel- 
comed her courteously, kindly for him, and, taking a seat, 
with brief words imparted his desire to her. At first she 
shrank timidly from the thought ; but he held out such high 
hopes of success that at length he won her to listen eagerly. 
It would be a holy, blessed privilege to restore, by her means, 
her parents to their old home ; and would it not serve also to 
fill what, with all the beautiful resignation with which she 
bowed to her fate, seemed to her but a blank existence? 

Beneditta made her sing to him, and the room was filled 
with glad, gushing music. She grew inspired once more ; 
radiant, beaming, was Joya Allison. But with the sudden 
flash of beauty over the late pallid face the old man grew 
troubled. Coldly and sternly he said, " I shall, after trouble, 
care and expense, bring you out ; some young man will con- 
ceive a passion for you, and seek to make you his wife ; you 
will forget your old friend, and all my labor will be lost." 

*' You mistake. Signer Beneditta ; I shall never marry 
any one," she answered, gently and sorrowfully, but growing 
pale. 

" You are a rare flower — a bud of genius which I would 
cull from temptation and consecrate to art. I would behold 
you bud and glow in art's glorious sunshine. I can perceive 
in you the soul of a second Corinne, when you sing to me, 
Signora Joya," said the old man, in impassioned tones. 

She made him no answer ; her head only drooped a little 
lower. " Will you swear not to marry, — to give yourself 
to the divine profession under my guidance ? " 

Her soft, sad gaze was upon him. Was he pitiless, that he 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 125 

thus sought to immolate that young heart in a living tomb ? 
" Will you not give yourself to music, signora, while Bene- 
ditta lives to guide you ? Swear it ! " He drew himself up 
with vain arrogance; he felt very vigorous; he could not 
bring himself, the old man of seventy winters, to look upon 
his tenure of life as frail or brief. 

« I swear it, Beneditta ! " said the clear, low voice, as the 
girl's head sank upon her bosom. 

Again the icy hand seemed to clasp her heart ; again the 
echo of the wave beating on the shore answered, " Never — 
nevet' ! " 

A pleasant, airy cottage was taken in the suburbs of the 
city, and there the Allisons removed immedia+ely. On the 
pale countenance of Mrs. Allison once more smiles began to 
dawn ; and the invalid grew daily less fretful, content to sit 
ever in the warm sunlight, silent and thoughtful, but evidently 
failing. 

And Joya, now the bride of song, silent and pallid, bowed 
over her task, or for hours sat in the lonely study of Bene- 
ditta, improving wondrously under his guidance. One day, 
as she sang to him, the sweet notes, echoing around and filling 
the old man with rapture, floated back upon her own heart, 
waking her to a full realization of the wonderful power which 
she possessed. Then there flashed instantaneously over her a 
dream of future triumph, and from that hour new life appeared 
to glow within her. 

:J^ ^ ^ ^ ^ # =Jfe 

■it, M, ^, Jit, M, 4t, .^ 

T*^ ^ ^ ■Tf W T^ •7*- 

.^ .^ .M, -it, -^ -^ -^ 

'7^ ^ ^ ^ .^ ^^ ,ff. 

Three years subsequent to these events, a young girl ap- 
peared in a new opera in Paris. A perfect furore of delight 
hailed her d^but. The angel melody of the voice, which 
floated in soft, rich strains upon the listener's ear, echoed 
again and again upon their hearts when the beautiful pres- 
ence was withdrawn. Cold, statue-like, she came before the 
11=^ 



126 THE PBIMA donna; OR, 

immense audience that welcomed her, and bowed, seemingly 
deaf to their greeting. But, when the house began to fill 
with melody, the color glowed upon her cheek, her eyes 
beamed, she was like one inspired. She gave herself up ut- 
terly to her art ; the woman was lost in the artist. 

And this was the pupil of Beneditta. After her father's 
death, in company with her mother, he took Joya to Paris ; 
and, as she out-soared even the limits of his capacity, he placed 
her under the guidance of the world-renowned Garcia. 

Beneditta had given up his own ardent dreams of fame ; 
his whole soul was wrapt up in his pupil. 

While the young debutante sang nightly, the thin, vener- 
able countenance of the old man, lighted with triumph, was 
to be seen gazing upon her every moment. 

From Paris she proceeded to Naples ; and there her fame 
had preceded her. The night of her debut the young secre- 
tary of the American ambassador there entered the large 
opera-house, filled to overflowing with a brilliant and aristo- 
cratic audience. A party of Americans occupied a box near 
the stage, and the silken curtains were put far back, as though 
the occupants courted the gaze of that assembly. 

Conspicuous amid the brilliant ones around was a young 
girl seated therein, with her golden curls bound with jewels, 
her blue eyes bent proudly down upon the upturned counte- 
nances. Many could perceive the rich lace shading the 
white, voluptuous bust tremble, and her hand stir the per- 
fumed air with the heavy feathers of her fan, as the young 
American took a seat by her side, conspicuous in his simple, 
dark, national dress, amid surrounding uniforms and glitter- 
ing costumes. But he drew himself haughtily erect as the 
proudest there, though he was very pale ; and in the gaze of 
those dark hazel eyes, which swept the circle around, there 
was something of sadness, as, resting his elbow upon the arm 
of his chair, he bowed his head upon his hand, while his eye- 
lids drooped. 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 127 

The color deepened upon the lady's cheek, but she took no 
further heed of his seeming want of courtesy, although she 
was the beautiful American belle at Naples, and the most 
favored amid all worshippers. Yet the only one swelling her 
train who was chary of his homage was the young American 
attache who was seated by her side, silent, cold, utterly indif- 
ferent to her presence. Shadows were warring in his heart, 
where once had dwelt sunshine. 

He paid no heed to the murmur rising with the curtain ; 
he glanced not up, until a thunder of applause echoed through 
the house, announcing the presence of the queen of song. 
Then he grew white and rigid as quarried marble ; for the 
lustrous eyes of the cantatrice were upon him, but no sound 
came from her pale, parted lips. The audience deemed her 
overpowered by sudden timidity, and again they applauded 
encouragingly. 

The tall, erect figure of an old man was seen to rise from 
his seat near the stage, and gesticulate violently. It was 
Beneditta, half frantic with fear ; but, ere the applause 
ceased to vibrate on the air, the color gushed back to her 
cheek, and the parted lips gave forth soft notes. That vast 
temple dedicated to art was filling with song ; for the dark 
eyes had wandered to the golden-haired one by the secretary's 
side, and the spell was broken. 

Bellini's opera of Norma was produced, and a young and 
lovely creature played the part of Adalgisa ; but the audi- 
ence paid no heed to her. Norma, the erring priestess, repre- 
sented by that impassioned, burning spirit, held all hearts 
captive. But all else that night was forgotten in the glori- 
ously beautiful woman ; for the voice of a sorrowing angel, 
in wild, delicious melody, murmuring a burning prayer to 
unhappy passion, was given in all the thrilling cadences of 
love and despair, waking in many hearts the fountain of 
tears. 

When the curtain fell, there followed a long-continued 



128 THE PRIMA DONNA ; OR, 

burst of enthusiasm. The only two there who were mute 
were Ellen Ballou, the American belle, bending slightly for- 
ward over the cushioned balustrade, with a bitter, ironical 
expression, and her companion, Brian Vernon, still, statue- 
like and rigid. 

Brian had not heeded the sharp, startled whisper which 
told him the prima donna before them was Joya. His own 
heart had, with a mighty throb, recognized in the spirit of 
music his lost love, when her first glance fell upon him ; but 
he was spell-bound. The audience grew impatient, for the 
cantatricc lingered long, as though she courted not their hom- 
age ; but at length she came, no longer in opera costume, 
simple as a village girl, but for the regal air, and golden 
butter-cups in her hair. 

In silent grace she stood erect amid the storm of fragrant 
flowers falling upon the stage, while bouquets with jewelled 
bracelets rained at her feet. But there was no gleam of 
exultation in the woman's beautiful eyes : with a wild, plead- 
ing glance she was gazing upon one countenance, alone visible 
amid the sea of human faces before her. Suddenly she grew 
white as the folds of her robe, stretched forth her fair arms, 
and, murmuring sorrowfully "Beneditta," sank upon her knee 
amid a profound silence, while the whole audience arose breath- 
less upon their feet. A vast sigh broke the thrall which held 
them, and stirred the silent air, making an avalanche of ap- 
plause. They deemed it but a part of the artist's role. It 
was the woman's heart drooping and fainting in its hour of 
triumph, — the unconquering yearning for aflection once more 
dawning, — the sweet flower of love unfolding its delicate 
petals to droop beneath the chill blasts of despair. Beyond 
the thrilling glance which Brian Vernon had bent upon her, 
as he marked the jewels woven in her hair, peered the old 
man's face, cold, inexorable. Again the icy hand clasped 
her heart, again the wild waves seemed to murmur, " Never — 
7ieve7' ! " 



MISTS or THE SPIRIT. 129 

As the curtain fell Brian Yernon arose ; but be staggered, 
and caught his chair for support, pressing his handkerchief to 
his lips. Even Ellen Ballou was startled out of her wonted 
elegant self-possession, as she beheld it crimson, and the dark 
eyes grow dim. A footman supported him to his carriage, 
fainting ; and while all Naples rang out, on the morrow, with 
the mighty triumph of the prima donna, tidings of the danger- 
ous illness of the elegant American secretary found its way to 
many a palace home. 

From an early hour until noon, the apartments occupied by 
the cantatrice were besieged by a host of courtly worshippers, 
eager to lay their homage at her feet : but the stately old 
man Beneditta guarded well his prison-bird of song, and one 
after another departed in disappointment. But at midday 
her carriage drew up before the residence of the American 
ambassador, and she was seen therein closely veiled, with 
Beneditta by her side, while they waited the return of the 
messenger who had entered in haste. When he appeared, he 
placed in the hands of the prima donna a note, and, f-pringing 
to his place behind her, the carriage rolled homewards. But 
the shrouding veil was put back, and the white face bent 
eagerly over the note trembling in her hand. 

" Beneditta, I cannot sing to-night ! " 

" Signora, you must ! " 

" Not to-night, 0, not to-night, Beneditta ! I am so weak, 
so like a sick one ! See how I tremble ! it would be a mock- 
ery, with this wan face." 

" It must glow, child of song, bride of music, in the glory of 
your triumph, as you bow not to the welccming thousands, but 
to the divine art." 

She complied with his wishes, but it was as though a statue 
had by a magic touch discoursed rich strains of music ; there 
was no inspiration, no glowing action. They greeted her 
warmly ; it was only a new feature presented to them. Again 
her carriage, in the sultry heat of midday, stood before the 



iWO THE PRIMA DONNA ; OR, 

residence of the American embassy, and still Beneditta accom- 
panied her with a clouded brow ; but now the bulletin of the 
physician was more appalling than the previous one. 

" Beneditta," she said, raising her veil and bending her 
glance full upon him, " the American secretary is very ill ; 
he is an old friend ; he desires to see me ; I am going to him ; 
will you accompany me ? " 

" You cannot go, signora ; you must come here no more ; 
it is unbecoming in you, this anxiety for a stranger." 

" Am I your slave. Signer Beneditta, that thus you pre- 
sume to dictate to me ? " answered the lady, haughtily, spring- 
ing out and passing up the marble steps, heedless of his anger. 
Half an hour afterwards she came out pale, calm and serene, 
paying no heed to the angry old man. That night she ap- 
peared before the public yet differently. A holy serenity, a 
quiet peace, seemed to fill her heart. 

Daily, for a week, her carriage drove to the door, and the 
countenance of Beneditta grew ever colder and sterner ; but, 
after the one interview, she sought no other. He hastened 
the conclusion of her engagement with all possible speed, and 
the last night of her appearance in Naples was at hand. 
Alone the prima donna was seated, in deep revery, when the 
door of her apartment was thrown open, and the American 
'secretary was announced. He hastened to her side ; she arose 
and laid her little hand in his in greeting ; but she expressed 
no joy at his convalescence. Cold, pale, she stood before 
him. 

" And is it thus you welcome me, Joya ? Was it but in 
mockery you stood beside my sick couch, and spoke so gently 
and cheeringly to the mute, suffering man ? Cannot years of 
misery atone for the idle bitterness and doubt which made me 
false alike to myself and you ? 0, Joya, idol of my boyhood, 
more than idol of my manhood, when you came before me in 
that lighted temple with the token of our first meeting, the 
indissoluble bond between us, — O, then my spirit stretched 



3IIST3 OP THE SPIRIT. 131 

forth its arms imploringly to you ; then I prayed God not to 
die, though in my madness I once thought it would be a boon. 
Then life grew so precious, with the bright hope of winning 
back the olden love you bore me, when, Joya, by my side, on 
Newport beach, and I — " 

" Hush / " it was only a whisper that fell upon his ear, but 
in its clear, solemn accents there was a strange power to arrest 
the tide of love-words ebbing from his lips, for she was point- 
ing to Beneditta, the old man who followed her as a shadow 
wherever she moved. Over his heart there flashed a sudden 
fear ; he dropped the cold, nerveless hand he held, and started 
back, murmuring, 

" God, Joya, who is it ? " 

" Beneditta," she whispered, as though that name sufficed 
to define the whole burden of her misery. 

" Thy husband, — that old man ? — thou his wife ? " 

Beneditta came forward. " Not my wife, nor the wife of 
any other man, yet a bride nevertheless," he said. 

" Is he mad, Joya ? What means he, that he taunts me 
thus ? " questioned Brian Vernon, sternly, as he turned tow- 
ards her. 

Joya's whole countenance was expressive of suffering ; but 
she roused herself, and, turning proudly to Beneditta, desired 
him to leave her. 

"But your vow, Signora Joya ! " 

" Is registered. Signer Beneditta," she answered, with forced 
calmness, pointing to heaven ; and he departed. 

The shadows of night began to fill the apartment before 
Brian Vernon departed ; and then again Beneditta entered. 
Joya was sitting where he had left her, with her head bowed 
low on her bosom, her dark hair half shrouding her face. She 
did not look up until he called her by name ; then she put 
back her hair, gazed upon him earnestly, and threw herself at 
his feet, praying, " 0, Beneditta, spare me ! — be merciful to 
me ! I am so young, I may yet experience so much joy, and 



132 THE PRIMA donna; OR, 

life has been so very dark to me, — do not force me now to 
shut from my heart, all chilled with woe, the sunshine which 
would warm it ! When I vowed away my life to you, there 
was a veil shrouding my spirit which seemed impenetrable ; 
but it is lifted now, and in thy hands is my fate. Beneditta, 
I am so young to live lone and unloved ! To cast all these 
heart-pinings from me is a mightier task than I have strength 
to perform." 

" The sun is setting, signora ; expectant thousands wait 
your coming ; prepare to receive their plaudits, sworn devotee 
of music. Bride of song, cast from your soul the mortal 
weakness which humbles you. You must ascend to heaven, 
when the golden chain of life is severed, singing your own 
requiem." 

" Or thine, Beneditta ! " 

A sudden tremor shook the frame of the haughty man ; 
but he threw it off. He was inexorable, — deaf to the pas- 
sionate pleader kneeling low before him. He left her there, 
silent, mute in her hopelessness, striving to put from her heart 
the sweet words of contrition and affection still echoing on her 
ear. Vain, futile was the effort. They mingled with the old 
man's words of doom. 



An avalanche of applause shook the vast opera-house to its 
foundation, for the cantatrice stood before them, her cheeks 
burning, her dark eyes glancing, her red lips parted, while 
flowers rained at her feet. But no note of music mingled 
with the deafening applause. It died away, and, breathless, 
they gazed upon her. She grew pale beneath their gaze, — 
paler and paler. The old man arose, tall and erect, and 
" Thy vow ! " in stern accents, falling from his lips, echoed 
through the house. She pressed her hand heavily upon her 
heart, with an expression of terrible pain, and a hoarse mur- 
mur fell upon all ears, — a wild, ineffactual effort to sing. 
Her voice came not at her bidding. 



MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 133 

The bird of song was mute ! She covered her pale face 
with her hands, bowing amid the crushed flowers on the stage, 
a stricken thing. 

For a moment the rigid figure of Beneditta stood erect, and 
fixed its fiery gaze upon her ; then he was seen to waver, 
totter a step forward, and, in the presence of all, fall lifeless, 
as the curtain fell over the drooping one upon the stage. He 
was taken up and cared for, but he never once again breathed 
audibly. His heart was broken. Joya Allison was again 
free, but her voice had gone forever ! 



A bride, leaning gracefully upon her husband's arm, enters 
the saloon of the Ocean House, and all eyes are bent upon 
her joyous and beautiful face. But the proud and noble-look- 
ing gentleman by her side leads her out hastily, as she whis- 
pers, 

" Take me out upon the balcony, dear Brian ! My heart 
is full ; I cannot brook their gaze. This place has conjured 
up so many memories, Brian, the tears Vould steal out, in spite 
of myself," she said, as he drew forward a chair, and seated 
himself by her side, to watch the sunset. 

" I need to listen to your voice, Joya, to realize that this is 
no fleeting dream, as I look upon you with this precious spray 
of buttercups in your hair, just as you looked here four years 
ago," answered the young husband. — " Why do you sit so 
thoughtful, and gaze upon vacancy?" he continued, noticing 
the abstracted expression of his fair wife. 

" I was only rejoicing, Brian, that Ellen prized these gems 
so lightly ; for I wept, partly with joy, partly with sorrow, 
when I chanced upon them at a jeweller's, one day, in Paris ; 
— sorrow, Brian, that you had parted so lightly with what had 
been once mine by your gift ; joy, to look upon them, and 
think of you. But we are to think no more of aught that is 
unpleasant, are we, Brian ? " 
12 



134 THE PRIMA DONNA ,* OR, MISTS OF THE SPIRIT. 

" Only when our happiness seems too great for this world, 
my sweet wife, and we need some shadowy remembrance to 
wean us from too much of earthly idolatry." 

" We will pray God for strength, Brian ; and, in our deep 
gratitude for the shadowy mists which have flitted over our 
spirits, and by his mercy been dispelled, forget him not in our 

joy." 



TO THE ANGEL AZRAEL. 



Angel of Peace ! where wert thou in that hour ? 
Thy pale lips should have pressed the open flower, 
Sealed the soft beauty of its stainless bloom, 
Shut the pure chalice with its sweet perfume. 
I called thee, with the cool dew of thy breath 
To save it from Earth's burning sun, 0, Death 1 

I called thee, as life's dawn-light slowly broke 
Into the morning's fulness, and I woke 
From the dim dreamings of those mystic years 
That fold the sheathed Future's golden ears. 
For thee the fair fruit whitened to its prime ; 
Where wert thou. Reaper, in that harvest-time ? 

I called thee, wandering through Eden vales, 
On the sweet breath of its enamored gales ; 
I called thee, kneeling low in trusting prayer 
Amid its flowery meads, before the glare 
Of the fierce sword had swept across that sod 
Where I had held a calm, near walk with God. 

I called thee, with thy white wings, to o'erspread 
That roseate radiance ere its bloom had fled ; 
To press thy cool hands on my throbbing breast. 
Lest its glad pulse should change to wild unrest ; 
With thy deep calm to brood upon my dreams, 
Until I woke beyond earth's turbid streams. 



136 • TO THE ANGEL AZRAEL. 

In vain. Thy light shone on me from afar, 
Like the pure ray of an unfathomed star ; 
Faith's silver lamp burnt tremulous and low, 
Oft flickering and dimmed by earth's wild woe ; 
Love's pearly flower flushed into crimson light, 
Then in dark ashes faded from my sight. 

Once more I called thee, through that solemn gloom, 
With the broad shadow of thy sable plume 
To sweep athwart those memories that made 
The past all desert with their Upas shade ; 
To fill for my parched lips thy Lethean bowl. 
And loose the cords that bound a weary soul. 

Yet thou came not ; low kneeling by the pyre 
Of my most cherished hopes and high desire, 
I bowed my head, and, in their darkened dust, 
Eead the sad record of mere mortal trust ; 
I had made idols, then called thee to save 
My heart from vigils o'er their early grave. 

Reaper of God ! I called on thee in vain 
To bind for me earth's rich and ripened grain ; 
To save, undimmed, Love's fair and festal flower, 
And bear me, tranced, from an Eden bower, 
To that sweet realm whose sunlit beauty lies, 
Eternal as it dawned, in Paradise ! 

Angel of Death ! I called on thee in vain, 
To shield me from life's mystic rood of pain ; 
But faith's pure light, unquenched by the gloom, 
Reveals a clime where yet Love's flowers shall bloom ; 
And seed here sown, with tears of bitter grief. 
Bear joy's rich fruitage for thy banded sheaf. 



HEATH HALL; 

OR, A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 



** Love had departed; youth, too, had departed; 
Hope had departed ; and my life before me 
Lay covered with the ashes of the past, — 
Dark, barren, cold, drear, flinty, colorless ! " 

While on a visit, late in the summer of 18 — , to a charm- 
ing country residence situated at some distance up the Hud- 
son, the ennui consequent on a rainy day induced a gentle- 
man then visiting at the same house to relate for my diver- 
tisement the following narrative. 

We were, at the time, seated in the deep embrasure of the 
library window, which commanded an extensive view of the 
surrounding country, when my attention was attracted in the 
direction of Heath Hall, — a venerable old place, which had 
been purchased, a short time prior, by a gentleman of fortune, 
and was at this period undergoing extensive repairs and im- 
provements, preparatory to his return from Europe, where he 
was then travelling with his family. 

" A mournful story is connected with those gray walls," 
said my acquaintance, as the sharp lightning played over its 
balconied windows and terraces. 

" Ah I " and I looked up questioning, for something in the 
saddened tones of his voice attracted my attention. 

" It is a sorrowful story, and a long one," he answered. 
But I assured him of my curiosity, which was fairly aroused, 
and he proceeded to gratify me. 
12^ 



138 HEATH hall; or, 

" The house, which you will have perceived is very old, was 
built by an Englishman of property, who, early in life marry- 
ing a young American girl, made our country his home. To 
this wife he was profoundly attached ; and she bore him two 
children, — the eldest a girl, and but one year the senior of her 
brother, Kalph. For years this man apparently required no 
earthly gift to add to his entire happiness. But in the twelfth 
year of Eda the daughter's age, the mother sickened and 
died. From the shock of her death the bereaved husband was 
said to have never recovered, although he lived to behold his 
eldest child marry, and Ralph, his young idol, return from 
the completion of his collegiate studies, full of genius, and 
honorable and manly as even hi.j yearning heart and exacting 
tenderness could desire. 

"Then a little while, and he followed the bride of his youth 
to rest. The deserted house became too lone a home for its 
young master, and he went abroad. • 

" When he returned, the smooth cheek, the light thoughtless- 
ness of boyhood, had forever disappeared. A shadow lay up- 
on his spirit, veiling the sunshine which once had radiated 
over his expressive lineaments. For a long time it lingered, 
then grew faint, and ever fainter, until the shadow also was 
but a vestige of the past. 

" In the gay circle, which missed in his presence one of its 
brightest ornaments, it was whispered that the brilliant Maud 
Rutherford was the cause of his seclusion ; but wherefore 
none knew. Only one thing was certain — the gloriously gifted 
woman, who had so long queened it over many hearts, drooped 
and paled with his departure, until there were those who 
spoke of her as one suffering the anguish of unrequited 
affection. But, with the first whisper which reached her 
ear, Maud Rutherford roused herself from the death-like 
lethargy which had stolen over her, and once more brilliant 
as of old appeared in society, in defiant scorn, as it were, of 
the insidious whispers of those who envied her her beauty's 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 139 

power. A little while, and again the recherche circle in 
which she moved was convulsed with amazement. The won- 
drouslj gifted belle of twenty summers was the bride of a 
millionaire of sixty. 

" Years rolled by, and in the quietude of Heath Hall Ralph 
appeared to find a deep charm, for it was only at rare inter- 
vals he left its seclusion. But during his thirtieth year he 
experienced, in a temporary absence from home, a new emo- 
tion. The love which had been chilled and thrown back up- 
on his heart once more kindled into being, and when he 
returned home from the south there accompanied him a half- 
wild, half-timid girl. Elise was the name by which he called 
her to his friends ; but in the holy privacy of wedded life, in 
the sanctuary of home, she was his * southern flower,' his 
' blossom of the wilderness.' 

" Then there followed many weeks when his fellow-men 
knew Ralph Heath to be blessed in the presence which cast 
sunshine on his hearth, so full of serene happiness was his 
countenance when he mingled among them. 

" But into society he never took his wife, whose beauty be- 
came proverbial, the country round, by those who had beheld 
her. Some said it was from jealous fear, lest others looking 
upon her should learn to worship her with his own idolatry. 
But there were those who knew him better ; and they knew 
that if he feared, it was lest the world's contact should rob 
her of her child-like simplicity, — should sully her, the im- 
maculately pure. 

" Sorrow at length spread its dusky wing over the late 
joyous home ; a woe unfathomable, impenetrable, bowed the 
master of Heath Hall. Once it was lifted ; but again it deep- 
ened, for soon the young wife was laid, a withered flower, in 
the silent tomb, by the side of the pale little blossom which 
had budded in her bosom. 

" And once more Ralph Heath became a wanderer in foreign 
lands. Years passed, and he returned to part with the habitual 
luxuries of his life, to go on a mission to the far-off West. 



140 HEATH hall; or, 

" It was during this mission that I first knew Mr. Heath, in 
the secluded village which grew up beneath his care, and 
where my own boyhood's days were past. It was under his 
superintendence that I was prepared for college ; and during 
the time I learnt, with all others over whom fell the spell of his 
presence, to love and respect him to an unusual degree. The 
serene, and, with all his meekness and lowly reverence, high- 
bred man, seemed prematurely aged. Years fraught with 
many changes went by, until Mr. Heath became but a pleas- 
ant memory to look back to amid life's strife, when the interest 
he had shown for me in boyhood manifested itself anew by a 
summons to the home to which he had returned, to spend, as 
he told me, the brief residue of a life gradually ebbing to 
eternity. This return, I further learned, was caused solely ■ 
by his being no longer able to discharge with fidelity his 
duties as a pastor. 

<' In entire ignorance of the affluence of Mr. Heath, I was 
profoundly astonished to find that the dim, shadowy old house, 
with its luxuries of other years, and troop of ancient servitors, 
grown gray with their master, was indeed his, — his who had 
absented himself from its enjoyment, accepting, through love 
for God and man, a laborious life of arduous care and self- 
denial. 

" For over two weeks I remained his guest, awed, but never 
wearied, by the breathless quiet which pervaded the entire 
place, the stealthy steps with which the subdued-looking 
inmates went about their household duties. 

" In the interval, my days were either passed in the fine 
library, or fishing in the river, with Tony — who was, appa- 
rently, the confidential servant of Mr. Heath — for my 
guide. 

" He was a quiet, docile being, and the only time I ever 
knew him startled out of his wonted apathy was consequent 
on my proposing a day's excursion into the forest with my 
gun. 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 141 

" * No, no, massa ! De tunder ob de gun wake missus 
Elise, — de birds' little cry break massa's heart again,' he 
answered, with an expression of terror. 

" ' Y/ho is Mrs. Elise, Tony ? ' I questioned ; and it was 
then that I learnt that Ralph Heath had not been always 
thus alone in the world. Yet, grievous as had been his 
affliction and his bereavement, I found it difficult to realize 
a life-long agony, such as the negro represented his to have 
been. 

" We had been walking, whilst he spoke, up an avenue lead- 
ing from the river's brink ; and he took me round by a serpen- 
tine path, through the grounds, to a bank, standing upon 
which I could overlook a high fence, enclosing a garden that 
lies upon the south side of the house, surrounding a large, 
two-storied octagon wing, of a more modern build than the 
main building. 

" Previously, half-concealed as the high fence was by trees 
and shrubbery, I had imagined it to be some vegetable garden, 
fenced off from the remainder of the grounds ; but, looking 
down on the rare flowers, the carefully-tended shrubs, with the 
row of French windows opening thereon, and all shrouded by 
soft, warm-hued curtains, the gray walls, half-veiled by the 
fragrant honeysuckle and running roses, I knew that a deeper 
interest was attached to that spot than any other. I was right. 
It was the dead wife's garden ; and those curtained windows 
opened into the boudoir, where all remained as when she had 
dwelt therein. 

" AVith a yet deeper interest I that night gazed on Ralph 
Heath, as he sank back in the deep arm-chair, with its time- 
worn crimson cushions, which I noticed he suffered no human 
being but himself to occupy. 

" Deeply furrowed and worn as was that pallid face, I could 
perceive how grandly beautiful it must have been in youth, 
with the dark, soul-lit eyes, intellectual brow, and smile of 
woman-like tenderness radiating over all. 



142 HEATH hall; or, 

" How deep a charm those evening hours possessed, I real- 
ized not until they had ceased to be ! 

" It was his wont to nightly unbend from his habitual reserve, 
and discourse of his long sojourn in foreign lands; while 
far into the night he would hold me captive by the spell of 
his eloquence. 

" Never once, however, did he allude to a period when his 
life was less isolated. For upwards of twenty years no guest 
but myself had been welcomed at Heath Hall. I once alluded 
to his loneliness, but never again desired to interrogate him, 
so sorrowful, so intensely agonized, was the expression which 
stole over his countenance, as he answered, ' Alone, alone on 
earth ! ' 

" The morning subsequent to Tony's revelation of his master's 
secret, as I descended to the library, I encountered the faith- 
ful domestic in the hall, coming in quest of me, in an agony 
of terror. He had discovered Mr. Heath rigid and immov- 
able, seated in the library, unable to articulate. When I 
entered, I found him in the same position in which I had bade 
him * good-night ' late the previous evening. His eyes were 
unclosed, and they turned with a steady, earnest gaze upon 
me, while the hoarse, low murmur on his lip indicated the 
fatal stroke of paralysis which had smitten him. 

" He was conveyed to his chamber, and skilful medical aid 
was summoned to his assistance; but care and skill were 
alike useless. The decree had gone forth ; the hours of the 
weary old man were nearly numbered. The steady gaze of 
his dark but ^im eyes was fixed upon my countenance ; and I 
realized with pain that he would fain have spoken to me, had 
he possessed the power. 

" Late in the afternoon of the second day, with a faint motion 
of his hand he pointed to an old-fashioned ebony writing-desk. 
I instantly brought it to his side, and with the same feeble 
gesture he motioned me to retain it. A little while afterwards 
the gazing eyes grew dimmer and dimmer, cold perspiration 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 143 

gathered on the marble brow, and the old man slept ; — • but it 
was the sleep of eternity ! 

" That night there arrived from New York a stranger, who 
announced himself as the administrator of Mr. Heath's estate. 
He was affable and courteous, inviting me to remain until after 
the funeral ceremonies of my old friend. 

" In the morning, as I descended to breakfast, I beheld Tony 
standing in the half-open doorway of an apartment hitherto 
closed. He beckoned me to his side ; and, at once compre- 
hending whose room it had been, with irrepressible curiosity I 
crossed the threshold and entered, closely followed by Tony, 
who glanced with a mingled feeling of curiosity and terror 
about him. 

" I found myself in the centre of a spacious and lofty octagon 
room, with rose-colored walls, slightly faded and discolored by 
time. The morning light, shining through the falling cur- 
tains, flooded all around with a soft, warm glow, that lit up 
the tall mirrors, and gilded into deeper beauty many fine old 
paintings. 

" The few pieces of statuary which there were in the room 
were covered with crisp and withered wreaths, which for years 
had draped the marble. In the alcove between the two win- 
dows stood a low couch, luxuriously cushioned, and a rich 
crimson mantle lay thereon. A little way off stood a bird- 
cage by a stand of flowers, all fresh and fragrant, contrasting 
singularly with the faded, deserted appearance of the place. 
A piece of sugar, gray with dust, was thrust betwixt the tar- 
nished bars of the empty cage ; and a gossamer handkerchief, 
richly frilled with lace, lay across an open volume upon a 
table. 

" But all these things I noted with a rapid glance,- for the 
moment afterwards my attention was riveted by a painting 
from which a thick veil was gathered back. So life-like 
was the effect of the picture, that I started involun- 
tarily, as though a breathing, human woman stood before me. 



144 HEATH hall; or, 

" Not radiant, ethereal, was the beauty of the portrait of 
the wife of Ealph Heath. The eyes, large and deeply blue, 
bore a mingled expression of tenderness and spirit ; with all 
their dreaminess there burnt within their fathomless depths so 
intense a light. The exquisitely-cut features were wasted and 
transparent, while there was a sorrowful parting of the red 
lips, as though they had quivered with an emotion of anguish 
at the moment the artist sought to perpetuate their expression 
on his canvas. 

" A rich robe of crimson cashmere fell in soft folds about 
the delicately-rounded limbs, and deep ruffles of costly lace 
shaded the white throat and thin little hands. Like an 
infant's, but for its luxuriance, was the golden hair, so soft, 
so bright, clustering in great curls about the brow. The car- 
pet before the painting was much worn, as though a frequent 
footstep had lingered there, while the glance of love contem- 
plated the angelic countenance. 

" A choking sob aroused me from the re very in which 1 
was lost. The faithful servant was weeping like a child as 
he looked upon the portrait of his mistress. 

" ' Was it like her, Tony ? ' I asked. 

" 'De berry semblance of poor Missus Elise,' he answered, 
as we left the chamber consecrated by so much love and 
grief. 

"I remained but to follow my venerated friend to his grave, 
and departed from Heath Hall, bearing with me the old desk, 
which was to me his dying bequest. It was filled with 
numerous letters, from among which I have selected those 
which were written by Mr. Heath to his sister, Eda Herbert, 
and returned to him subsequent to her death. They contain 
a brief sketch of his sad, strange life, and I will place them 
at your disposal. Should you desire to publish them, with 
the accompanying narrative which I have given you, you are 
at liberty to do so." 

Of this permission I gladly avail myself reader, and sub- 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 145 

mit them to you, trusting you also may be interested in their 
perusal. 

TO EDA HERBERT. 

Villa Mellinii Rome. 

Dear Eda : No longer can your wanderer write to you of 
the wonders of the eternal city. No more, as I stand in the 
Coliseum by moonlight, fancy travels back through the long 
vista of bygone years, until that vast amphitheatre becomes 
peopled with the beings of my imagination, those who for 
centuries have rested in the eternal repose of the tomb. I 
have forgotten all sadness as I gaze upon the crumbling home 
of the Caesars, and all fear of the deadly malaria, sweeping 
over the vast Campagna beyond the walls of Rome. 

All is life, light, sunshine, to me now ; for in the song of 
life an angel-voice takes up the refrain. " Beloved," mur- 
murs the low, soft music of a woman's voice ; and the mantle 
of her love is folded warm about my heart. 

It was on St. Valentine's, the first day of the Carnival, at 
mid-day, that I for the first time beheld her, this beautiful 
being who is called IMaud Rutherford. She was standing in 
a balcony which overlooked the Corsa, surrounded by many, 
but evidently the absorbing object of attention tO those who 
were with her. The whole balcony was festooned with gor- 
geous drapery, and a profusion of flowers were scattered 
around, to shower down upon the passers beneath. 

Although with a party of English and Americans, I sup- 
posed the vision of beauty which first arrested, then riveted 
my attention, to belong to Italy, so Italian-like was Maud 
Rutherford in the brilliancy of her large dark eyes, the rich 
coloring of her cheek and lip, the great purity of features 
and nobility of form, particularly in the fine outline of her 
head and shoulders. There was also something foreign in the 
manner in which she was attired, at once gorgeous and 
graceful. 

A voluminous veil of black lace was thrown over her mag-^ 

O 



146 HEATH MALL ; OR, 

nificent braided hair, and confined with a cluster of the deli- 
cate blossoms of the almond-tree. A gorgeous robe of 
brocaded silk, with a crimson scarf folded about her, com- 
pleted the brilliant picture which she presented to the gazer's 
eye, while the intense brilliancy of the unclouded sun radi- 
ated over all. 

Frequently a cavalier riding by would raise his plumed 
hat, with the graceful, reverential homage which these Italians 
know so well how to bestow on woman ; but a very slight 
inclination of that proud head was their sole reward, and the 
stately figure held itself still proudly erect. But, as the 
excitement deepened, suddenly the lady bared her white hand 
of its glove, buried it amid the pile of roses by her side, and 
withdrew a fairy bouquet, which she raised, with a graceful 
gesture, half-way to her lips, then, bending low over the 
balcony, cast it to the ground, just before a richly-dressed 
cavalier, in a mask, who had paused beneath. The cavalier 
sprang instantly from the saddle, raised the flowers, and, with 
a lowly reverence, placed them in his bosom. An emotion 
of indescribable annoyance shot through my bosom, and died 
again, as I beheld the beautiful stranger calm and unblush- 
ing, her face quietly averted from the cavalier who had bent 
to her with such graceful homage. 

Flowers were raining, in a fast-increasing shower, into the 
balcony from the surrounding besiegers ; and her companions, 
laughing, half wild with merriment, showered down the co7i- 
feth upon all beneath. A little while they remained, and 
then I saw no more of Maud Rutherford until we met on the 
last night of the Carnival. 

It was nearly midnight when I reached the theatre, and 
the ball would soon close. Closely masked, I entered a box, 
and gazed down into the pit, thronged with people. All at 
once a sweet, familiar voice, close by my side, questioned, 
" Are you ill, Maud ? — Help ! she is fainting ! " it continued, 
in an accent of terror, as I turned hastily round, and beheld 



A PACKAGE OE LETTERS. 147 

the figures of two women closely shrouded in black silk domi- 
noes, hood and mask. The smallest of the two had thrown 
her arm about her companion for her support, whose head 
was drooping languidly upon her shoulder. It was the voice 
of our friend, Louise Ainslie ; therefore I felt no hesitation 
in proffering my assistance, which was gladly received. They 
had been separated from their party in the dense crowd, and, 
wearied and suffocated by the oppressive atmosphere, the 
friend of Miss Ainslie had fainted. 

She was perfectly insensible, and, lifting her easily in my 
arms, I bore her quickly as possible from the theatre. As I 
did so her hood fell back, revealing the rich braided hair and 
pale features of the lady of the balcony. The breeze kissed 
her white lips refreshingly, recalling her to life, while her 
dark eyes grew bright once more with returning consciousness. 
The first emotion of surprise and terror at her position lan- 
guidly gave way with her friend's assurance of safety, and 
she suffered me to assist her to a carriage. 

With the briefly-murmured thanks of the lady mingled 
my friend's cordial invitation to visit them on the morrow, 
with the promise of a presentation to her companion, in due 
form. 

You may be quite sure, dear Eda, that I availed myself 
of Miss Ainslie 's permission to visit her the following day. 
She is wintering with her father in Rome, preparatory to 
their return to New York in the spring. They have already 
been abroad a number of years, and Maud Rutherford, who 
is Miss Ainslie's cousin, joined them last autumn in Paris. 

If I was charmed with the wonderful beauty of this 
young girl, dear Eda, how much more was I fascinated by 
the soft grace of manner, the bewitching earnestness, with 
which she greeted me, slightly pale and languid from recent 
indisposition! There is certainly nothing more fascinating 
than the languor which occasionally creeps over the bril- 
liancy of haughty beauty, almost imperceptible and inde- 



148 HEATH hall; or, 

scribable as it is, yet so irresistible in its power ; and this 
nameless emotion is frequently awakened by IMaud Ruther- 
ford. 

Our acquaintance ripened at once into that intimacy which 
binds wanderers from home when they meet in a land of 
strangers ; and, from mere friendship, the sentiments between 
Maud and myself have deepened into an affection which I 
believe to be mutual and indissoluble. And this light ever 
falling upon us, radiant yet soft, — this atmosphere of sensu- 
ous softness, — this blending of much that is grand, beautiful 
and graceful, in harmonious unison, — is congenial with love. 

One feels here as if he could be forever content standing 
on the Pincio, with the loved one by his side, to gaze on 
Rome, with the picturesque scenery of its flower-robed Cam- 
pagna, girded by lofty mountains and steep Sabine hills, glit- 
tering in the sunshine of day, or bathed in the silver of the 
moonlight; but the irresistible impulse of human energy 
rouses one from these dreams of loveliness, and bears him on 
to ever-changing scenes. 

Aside from the affection which I bear her, Maud Ruther- 
ford is the very companion to add to the enjoyment I expe- 
rience in my search after the wonderful and beautiful here. 
She has genius to realize art's highest conceptions. She visits 
not these far-famed temples of colossal beauty in idle curios- 
ity, but that her footsteps may tread where those have fallen 
of world-wide celebrity. To her, like myself, the Coliseum 
has been made sacred by the blood of martyrdom, which has 
flowed in torrents within its precincts, — by the might of 
Christian fortitude, triumphing over death ; and to us both 
this grand old relic, with its gray buttresses all draped with 
verdure, lone, desolate and half ruined, is of far deeper 
interest than the grandeur of St. Peter's. 

But already, dear Eda, have I stretched this letter to a 
most wearisome length ; and, with much affection for yourself 
and Herbert, I close at once. . Ralph. 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 149 

TO EDA HERBERT. 

Dear Eda : Ail is over between Maud Rutherford and 
myself. I write you this to spare myself the pain of commu- 
nicating it in person ; and I pray you will neither question 
me nor mention her name when we meet, — which will be very 
soon, as you perceive I am now en route for home. 

I could not remain longer in Rome. The place grew 
wearisome and distasteful to me after the true revelation of 
Maud's character. So deep had been my enjoyment in her 
society, it became too painful to linger where I had known 
so great happiness, and where all objects recalled her per- 
petually to memory. 

To me she is still the embodiment of grace, beauty and 
genius ; but no longer the pure, true, honorable woman ; and 
love dies with this miserable conviction. The affection which 
she professed to have recognized for the first time for man 
she had confessed to me before I last wrote to you, Eda ; and 
there followed then many days of serene peace, intense hap- 
piness, when no care appeared to cloud her brow, and the 
momentary intervals of disquiet which had been manifest in 
our early acquaintance gave way to the most perfect joyous- 
ness. 

One morning we had ridden out upon the Campagna, some 
distance from the walls of Rome. Maud was unusually ani- 
mated, and managed her spirited horse with a grace and 
dexterity which I have never seen equalled but by you, dear 
Eda. A travelling carriage, with an English servant mounted 
on the box, rolled rapidly by. The vehicle passed so close to 
my companion as to almost brush the skirt of her habit, when 
a gentleman looked out, raised hastily the cap drawn low 
over his brow, and would, doubtless, have ordered the driver 
to stop, had not Maud, with a quick touch of her whip, put 
her horse into a trot, plainly evincing her intention not to 
pause for any further recognition. 
13=^ 



150 HEATH hall; OR, 

The plume in her hat partially shaded her face, and she 
strove to shake it yet lower ; but I could perceive that the 
color which faded slightly from her cheek with the gentleman's 
salutation gave way to a crimson glow. When this glow had 
departed, she turned towards me, and, meeting my glance of 
interrogation, said, in a petulant tone of explanation, 

"Francis Rivers, the artist, from England, — a terrible 
bore, Ralph ! " 

A disagreeable suspicion that she desired to conceal" some- 
thing concerning her acquaintance with this man from my 
knowledge flashed over me ; but I said nothing, and strove to 
banish the thought, as unworthy of Maud's character. 

As we rode homewards, we again passed the person in ques- 
tion ; but he had left his carriage. Once more Maud colored 
deeply, and bowed nervously, while he regarded her with a 
mingled expression of surprise and reproach. In his appear- 
ance he was a very handsome, although somewhat effeminate 
man ; and simply dressed, with a port-folio beneath his arm, 
that at once defined his profession. 

When I assisted Maud from her saddle, she professed her- 
self fatigued, — her head ached,' — she believed she would 
not accompany Miss Ainslie and myself to the Capitol, as 
had been proposed. 

She was, indeed, looking ill; her face was pale, and she 
trembled nervously ; but it seemed to me, notwithstanding all 
my reasoning to the contrary, that her illness proceeded from 
some undefinable and inexplicable agitation, caused by the 
day's encounter. 

On our return, we asrain met the English artist, and this 
time he was coming from the direction of Maud's lodgings. 
Had he been there ? I started, and felt appalled by a deep, 
vague presentiment of some mysterious connection between 
them. I called my companion's attention to him. She, also, 
appeared slightly embarrassed, and interrogated me by an ear- 
nest look, which I could not comprehend. 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 151 

" Has not Maud mentioned him to you ? " she asked, on 
my remaining silent. I answered in the negative, and I 
thought, for a moment, that she was tempted to confide some 
knowledge in her possession to me ; but it was not so. 

She merely repeated what Maud had already told me, adding 
that he had painted a portrait both of herself and Maud, and 
that he had left Rome the day of the Carnival. 

It was sufficient. I recollected now the masked rider who 
held received Maud's favor the first day I beheld her. I fan- 
cied I recognized the cavalier in the artist. A vague, dismal 
foreshadowing of woe was in my heart ; I could not banish 
it. 

With the evening I sought Maud, that she might explain 
all to me. I felt confident that she would ; and was soothed 
in the belief, though fully impressed that I should even suffer 
from her explanation. But Maud was not visible. She was 
suffering from a severe headache, subsequent to a nervous 
attack, to which she was at times, her cousin told me, sub- 
ject. 

When I left, it was with the intention of returning home. 
But the extreme beauty of the night, and an undefinable 
restlessness, induced me to turn my steps in the direction of 
the Coliseum. 

For some time I wandered about, until, wearied, I sat 
down in the shadow of a broken column, which concealed me 
from two figures seated in the moonlight. 

Before I could rise and move away, on perceiving them, 
the man raised his hand and withdrew the hood which covered 
his companion's head, revealing a wealth of braided hair that 
I believed no woman in Rome possessed but Maud Rutherford. 
But it could not be Maud - — not Maud, there alone, in the 
loneliness of evening, with another than myself; but — 
Heaven, Eda ! that I should write it of her ! — the haughty 
head turned slowly round, and the silver moonlight fell over 



152 HEATH HALL ; OR, 

a pure, classic profile, every line of which was known by 
heart to me ! 

" And you tell me this, and think that I will obey you?" 
said a voice, low and deep, yet full of concentrated passion 
and despair, the tones of which riveted me motionless to 
where I stood. 

" You confess that you still love me, Maud Rutherford, yet 
give yourself to another, and me to despair! You would 
sacrifice yourself to this man's gold ! But you shall not ! I 
will yet save you. Maud, I will toil like the veriest slave, 
that poverty shall not gall and debase you by its iron touch. 
I will labor, with an intensity that shall make me an old man 
before my prime, for that fame which shall make the name 
of Rivers worthy of your acceptance." 

He had risen, and stood impassioned before her, full of a 
proud consciousness of the possibility of his achieving all he 
promised. But it soon passed away, until the innate majesty 
of a noble manhood seemed a mockery of the deep woe, the 
deadly pallor, which became more and more visible with each 
low word uttered by that silvery voice. 

" Francis, you should love one of these impassioned chil- 
dren of the south. Withdraw your afiection from a cold, 
barren heart like mine ; I should chill its very youth. You 
taught me once, I confess it, a pretty lesson of sentiment ; but 
your pupil has a roving, capricious memory, and it played tru- 
ant in your absence. Ralph will be satisfied with less emo- 
tion. Don't look so wild — so woe-begone ! Forget Maud 
Rutherford. Destiny will not sufi^er her to feel for you." 

He raised his head as she ceased, and I wonder she had 
not turned in shame from that glance of quiet scorn, of calm 
rebuke. 

" You bid me love another, Maud Rutherford, now that 
you know that I have nothing to give ; that the rich treasure 
of human love and tenderness, which God gave me alike with 
other men, has been taken from my bosom to be wasted 



A PACKAaE OF LETTERS. 153 

in wanton idleness ! If you have forgotten the lesson of 
womanly tenderness which I sought in its divine pathos to 
disclose to you, may you be less forgetful of the end of one 
human heart's joy ! I do not desire that it may be a never- 
ceasing reproach to your future hours of gladness, but a 
shield between yourself and other true and honorable hearts, 
that may enshrine you therein as reverently as I have done. 

" If destiny will not suffer you io feel for me, pride hence- 
forth must teach me forgetfulness of you ; and thus let the 
memory of the past perish ! " And from his bosom he drew a 
bunch of withered flowers, and cast them upon the ground 
beneath his foot. 

There was a laugh, Eda, like the laugh of unhallowed 
spirits, silver-clear as it was, which rang in my ear ; and 
then Maud Rutherford said, haughtily, " Now that this med- 
ley of tragedy and farce is completed, will you be so good, 
Mr. Rivers, as to lead the way to my carriage ? " 

With a step stately as her own he passed on, and I gazed 
after them until the last flutter of her garments was discern- 
ible. Then I threw myself back, bowed my face, and wept, 
— yes, wept, Eda, over the clouded dream, the desecrated 
love — wept, that in the world there was such deceit ; and 
when I arose the links which bound me to Maud Rutherford 
were severed forever. Before quitting the spot, however, I 
stooped to examine an object at my feet. It was a glove, which 
Maud had dropped. My first impulse was to cast it from me 
with a motion of abhorrence ; the next was to retain it. 

The following morning I enclosed it in a note, with only 
one word therein, — " Coliseum," — and my signature. No 
answer was ever received, — none was expected. Conscience 
at once told her that I had been present at her fatal inter- 
view. Days afterwards she drove past me as I stood in the 
Corsa. Our glances met, and both bowed haughtily ; she 
was very pale, and looked thin and unhappy. Since then we 
have not seen each other. 



154 HEATH hall; or, 

Now, dear Eda, this is the last time I would speak of 
her. 

I shall follow close upon the receipt of this, — be pre- 
pared. The youth who left you has matured into grave man- 
hood. Adieu, Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

Virginia. 

Dearest Eda : Your oft-expressed wish is soon to be 
gratified. Heath Hall will ere long have a mistress, and 
a most lovely one, believe me ; one who will not pine after 
the world and its gay frivolities, but enjoy its quiet beauty to 
the utmost. That which I have sought for hitherto so vainly 
I have at length discovered in an out-of-the-way place. The 
blossom budded not by my pathway ; I have searched for and 
found it in the dim and shadowy woodland. 

It was Christmas when I accepted the invitation of my old 
college friend, Frank Winters, — like myself, a bachelor, — 
and joined him here at his father's house in Richmond ; and 
I have remained here ever since ; for, just as I was begin- 
ning to long for my quiet home, — having, Eda, entirely un- 
fitted myself, by the past five years' seclusion, for society, — 
I encountered this sweet treasure of which I am writing. 

Frank and myself had started on horseback for a neigh- 
boring village, there to join another friend of our youth. 
Towards night we discovered that we had made a mistake in 
the road ; and, added to our perplexity, heavy clouds rising 
in the distance were ominous of a storm. In this emergency 
we made the best of our way to a fine old country-house in 
the vicinity, which was just visible through the trees. On a 
nearer approach, we found it to be almost entirely shut up, 
and desolate-looking in the extreme. As we rode round to 
the court in the rear and dismounted, several negroes came 
out to hold our horses, and learn what were our wants. 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 155 

We asked who the proprietor of the place was, and, learning 
it to be a Mr. Ancott, Frank sent one of the men in to his 
master, to beg the shelter of his roof from the fast-approach- 
ing storm. His request was answered by the gentleman in 
person, politely inviting us to alight and walk in. 

We gladly complied, struck by the peculiar gravity, but 
high-bred courteousness, of our host's manner, which at once 
placed us at our ease. We were ushered at once into a com- 
fortable chamber, where we proceeded to arrange our toilets, 
ere we descended to the presence, doubtless, of the ladies of 
Mr. Ancott's family. 

On going down we were shown into a spacious apartment, 
the windows of which were not yet closed, though a huge fire 
glowed upon the hearth ; a pair of tall silver candlesticks 
stood upon the mantel-piece lighted, and with the bright glow 
of the fire diffused a pleasant radiance through the room. 

The tea-table, handsomely laid, stood in the centre of the 
room, evidently awaiting our appearance. Mr. Ancott sat in 
an arm-chair in one corner, and the ladies were standing near 
him. One of them he addressed as Mrs. Powers, in pre- 
senting Frank and myself; the other he simply designated as 
his daughter ; and by that daughter's side I had the good for- 
tune to procure a seat at table. 

We soon discovered that the respectable, middle-aged wom- 
an, whom he had called Mrs. Powers, stood in the position 
of governess to the younger lady. She presided at the head 
of the table, and was polite and talkative ; while Mr. Ancott 
conversed with an ease and dignity which bespoke him at 
once no ordinary man. But the young girl — Elise, as she 
was called — sat with her head slightly drooping, scarcely rais- 
ing her eyes, but to glance, with a timid, frightened expres- 
sion, towards her father, when compelled to answer me in the 
conversation which I addressed to her. But he apparently 
paid her not the slightest regard, until we arose from the 
table, when, turning towards us, he desired to be excused for 



166 - HEATH hall; or, 

the residue of the evening, as he had letters of importance 
to write for the morrow's mail ; and, desiring his daughter to 
entertain his guests, disappeared. 

At once the spell which appeared to have hung over the 
girl with his presence passed away. She lifted her graceful 
head with girlish freedom, and then that face which, from the 
first glance, I had thought to be fair, I found to be incom- 
parably beautiful. No longer did she answer me but in 
monosyllables, but chatted away with the most fascinating 
girlish vivacity. Ah ! how lovely I thought her, in her simple 
dress of brown merino, with her golden curls, her merry laugh, 
and frequent clasping of those little hands with enthusiasm ! 
But I never beheld any living being so fragile and ethereal as 
Elise Ancott ; it seemed as though a breath would waft her 
to heaven. 

"What! brown merino and all?" questions this saucy 
Frank, looking over my shoulder ; but even he, Eda, does not 
think that I exaggerate her beauty. 

But I cannot make this a very long letter, and therefore 
let me hasten to its conclusion. 

That night I dreamed of Elise; and it was a pleasant 
dream. When I awoke in the morning, and heard rain pat- 
tering against the windows, I rejoiced silently. 

Of course we were not suffered to depart during the con- 
tinuance of the storm. Three blessed days it lasted ; and 
then we parted — but I was to return again, — ay, and again. 
Each time of my return, however, the greeting of Mr. Ancott 
became more distant. But it was too late ; Elise had given 
me her love, and I was strong in the blessed knowledge of its 
sincerity, — sufficiently courageous in its possession to conquer 
all obstacles. 

To my surprise, when I asked her of her father, he made 
no opposition ; but he was sterner than ever. An impenetra- 
ble gloom enshrouds this man, — a gloom mortal eyes cannot 
pierce. This child of his, who has sprung up into the loveliest 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 157 

dawn of womanhood, who should fill his heart with proudest 
joy, he shuns; and she is unfortunately of an organization 
that requires the gentlest aflfection, the warmest tenderness. 
She is fading, she is drooping, without it ; but mine now the 
care, the blessed privilege, to surround her henceforth with 
all things bright and cheering, to infuse into her being new 
life and power. 

We shall be married soon, and I anticipate, with exceed- 
ing joy, the day when I shall install her in our old home. 
Until then, dear Eda, adieu. Ralph. 



TO EDA nERBERT. 

Heath Hall, June. 

Ah, Eda, once more am I happy ; filled with joy pure, inef- 
fable, so purified from all selfishness that you may banish 
from your thoughts, as unworthy of me, the fear of being sup- 
planted by another in my afiection. Think not, O beloved 
Eda, that the ever-present remembrance of the flower which 
rests in my bosom will o'ershadow your memory ! 

I have already told you how, like a botanist rambling 
through the old woods of Virginia, I came across this sweet 
blossom blooming alone in a desolate country home ; how the 
sweet flower awoke in my breast an ardent yearning, an in- 
tense desire, to transplant it where, in the genial atmosphere 
of aff'ection, it might expand in strength and beauty — and 
how I at length succeeded. I would, Eda, that you had been 
present at the bridal which has imparted to me so much hap- 
piness ; for the old house was lone and desolate, the night 
dark and cheerless ; the winds murmured and heaven wept. 
Grieved the elements that the flower was reft from its parent 
soil ? It was barren, and the flower was drooping. I shall 
never forget the half-hour I awaited the coming of my be- 
trothed in the dim-lighted library. It took her a long time 
to arrange her toilet ; and yet there was no crowd of flatter- 
14 



158 HEATH HALL ; OR, 

ing friends to dazzle witli the beauty of bridal apparel, for 
Mr. Ancott had desired that we should be wedded with none 
but the household present. 

I fancied it strange that she lingered so long ; it began to 
seem to me that, in lieu of smiling and blushing over her 
bridal flowers, she was praying and struggling for strength as 
for a sacrifice ; and just then the door was thrown open, and 
cold, white, drooping, she stood upon the threshold, her old 
black nurse holding a lighted taper above her head. Eoses 
were gleaming in her golden hair, and her bridal veil fell in 
white misty folds about her ; but the long lashes drooped low. 
Was it a weight of woe, or a strange, undefinable shrinking 
from the new life opening before the vision of girlhood ? 

I hastened to her side, and with whispered words of ten- 
derness awoke pale roses on her cheek, as I led her on to the 
drawing-room. Amid a blaze of light stood the rector, await- 
ing our presence. There were spoken a few brief words ; a 
golden circlet, symbolizing eternal truth, was bound with tender 
faith upon a slender finger ; together we knelt down, and we 
who were twain arose one — one through all eternity I 

The father touched lightly his child's brow with his speech- 
less lips, but the caress seemed a mockery of paternal love. 
One by one clustered the negroes of the household silently 
about her (all were quiet in his presence) ; the glimmer of 
their white teeth through dusky lips alone answering the 
tremulous voice of my girl-bride, as she spoke a few kindly 
words to each, and departed. 

Once more Mr. Ancott approached his child, laid his hand 
heavily upon her delicate shoulder, and, peering beneath the 
floating lace with his dark, stern eyes, said to her, in a voice 
whose sternness seems to go echoing on to infinity : " Elise, 
no star looked through the gloom of midnight on your birth — 
no sunbeam welcomed your first day on earth ! Fate has 
lighted for you a meteor ; pray Heaven that the curse of 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 159 

hereditary frailty extinguish it not ! " and, with a cold good- 
night, he disappeared. 

Elise had neither moved or spoken, but she had grown 
white and rigid. 

In the brilliant light of the room the atmosphere was chill 
and penetrating, and the wind murmured sternly at the 
windows ; but it was not physical suffering that shook that 
living flower as though exposed to the storm without, — it was 
the strange, cold oppression which surrounded her. But I 
folded my arms in warm tenderness about her, crushing the 
misty laces and glistening folds, while her head drooped wearily 
upon my breast. " Love me, Ralph ! " she pleaded, passion- 
ately, " love me, or I shall die ! — I cannot exist without 
love. Love is air, sunshine, vitality, to me ! I have been as 
in a living tomb ; — the shadow of death lays ice-like on my 
life ! " 

It was the frost of neglect, Eda. As a flower droops when 
the frost-king breathes upon it, so drooped and paled Elise ; 
but summer suns and heart-beams are reviving her. 

While I write to you, she lays in the deep alcove of the 
south window of our sunny chamber. Her glance wanders 
from the serene, blue summer sky to me, as though I were 
fairer to her, — I, the tall dark man ! But the flower loves 
the huge tree which shields it from the blast. 

If you were here, Eda, you would then realize, like myself, 
how angelic is the presence which fills every nook and corner 
of this old house with radiance. The very flowers to me 
seem to bud more luxuriantly ; the wild bird's song is nearer 
at hand, fearless of danger in the serenity of this silent sunny 
home. 

For Elise's use, I have added a large octagon wing on the 
south side of the house, and her taste has adorned it. 

When I first brought her here, in answer to my inquiry 
whether aught should be changed for her gratification, she 
looked half incredulous ; and, when my smile assured her, 



160 HEATH HALL ; OR, 

confessed that she would like a little sunny boudoir of her 
own. And her wish, Eda, is fulfilled. In this octagon room 
of hers everything is couleur de rose. 

Is it not a singular point in her constitution, this extreme 
aversion to cold and gloom ? I know it to be unconquerable ; 
for, if by chance she is thrown in contact with aught that 
chills her physically, she will shudder, and grow fearfully 
white and rigid. 

I dread the effect a winter at the north will have upon 
her ; I would take her to Georgia early in the autumn ; but 
she is averse to going amid strangers, and persuades me that 
a good fire, with her warm-curtained windows, will cheat us 
mutually into the delusion of a summer atmosphere. 

But I shall not hear to her prayer for home life, if she droops 
with the frost. She is too precious to me, this new-found 
treasure ; and daily she is teaching me the sweet lesson of a 
deeper love. I imagined, long ago, that I had mastered all 
the mysteries of this divine sentiment ; but each day a deeper 
knowledge is attained. 

Our time is passed with little variety. Still, we weary not, 
experience nothing of ennui. In the early morning I read to 
her aloud, while, sitting in the old arm-chair by my side, she 
busies herself with some pretty feminine employment. 

Then we walk amid the shrubbery, and Elise holds her 
muslin apron for the flowers which I gather for her vases. 

I am now teaching Elise to ride ; but she will never become 
an accomplished rider, like yourself, and there are times 
when I long for a companion who will yield to the exhilarat- 
ing impulse, and dash wildly on by my side through the 
woodland. But I cannot feel either impatient towards her, or 
reproach her for her timidity ; for it is only by a great effort 
that she can even mount the docile little creature I have pre- 
pared for her use. 

But the chime of the clock in the hall (the dear old clock, 
Eda, that you used to mount upon a chair, years ago, to wind 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 161 

up, while close at hand I watched you with eager eye and 
aspiring heart) is striking the hour appointed for Elise's ride ; 
and I must coax her from the dreamy repose she has been 
wooing all this bright morning hour. 

You will think me absorbed in my own happiness ; but I am 
not moved to forgetfulness of you, Eda. Adieu. 

Ealph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

Heath Hall, June. 

Well, Eda, have you begun to think that my flower claims 
even the little remnant of time apportioned to you, that your 
last has laid over a week in my bosom unanswered ? Not so, 
not so, beloved ! Elise would take nothing from you, — rather 
she gives to you ; and though the abundance of her affection, it 
is none the less worthy of acceptance. But yesterday morning 
this sweet child's eyes dimmed with tears, as she sat in the 
old chair with her head pillowed on my shoulder, while I read 
to her, because, as a memory of bygone days swept over me, 
I laid aside the volume which I held, and told her how you 
once sat beside me thus ; and she accused herself of having 
stolen into your dear place. With a heart filled with sym- 
pathy for you, she could not be brought to realize that you 
had found even a dearer one than brother. 

You write to me that you fear I am making Elise too 
fragile for life ; that when a mother's duties call upon her 
for firmness and strength, she will be found wanting. You 
are wrong ; for it is but in physical strength she is deficient. 
I believe that there is a deep-seated firmness and fortitude in 
her bosom, which trial or suffering will develop. Religion 
imparts a moral strength more enduring than that born of 
mere corporeal energy ; and in Elise's whole being are planted 
the very purest and holiest principles of religion. No tempt- 
ation, however vast, could sully the innate purity of her spirit, 
14# 



162 HEATH hall; OB, 

even though she might droop and pale from earth in the 
struggle. 

But she is gaining strength beyond my most sanguine ex- 
pectations in this bright month of June. Much of her former 
timidity as regards riding has vanished. I think, however, 
that this change may be attributed to my ardent praise of 
your horsemanship ; for one day, while we were riding in the 
woodland, Elise barely able to keep pace with me, I pointed 
to the great oak far ahead, and with enthusiasm spoke of the 
day when we last raced in those woods, with that old oak for 
our goal, the leaves of which were to wreath the winner's 
brow. How luxuriantly then, Eda, streamed your dark curls 
in the breeze sighing in the woodland, as you rode past me, and 
wheeled your pony, with a saucy laugh, beneath those giant 
boughs ! Still, darling, there echoes on my ear the joyous 
laugh pealing forth as you marked the awkward endeavors 
of these clumsy fingers to weave into a garland the green and 
glossy leaves. 

With a faint color on her cheek, Elise listened to my de- 
scription of this ride. And once more by this hand was a 
fair head crowned with the green oak-leaves ; but I whispered 
a gentle rebuke of her recklessness. 

" She was too precious." 

" Was not Eda also precious?" she questioned. 

" Ah ! but not like you, Elise. I knew that another than 
myself would some day claim her, and I must give her up ; 
but you, Elise — never ! " 

" Only to God ! " she answered, thoughtfully: and a strange, 
undefinable pain shot through my heart. 

Ah, Eda, beautiful in its joyousness, holy in its peace, is 
the life which I daily lead. " Thou art too blessed for a 
wanderer from the kingdom of the AU-Powerful," whispers 
some spirit in my ear. Be it voice of angel or demon, I know 
not ; but it casts a shadow over my heart. It will win its 
way, with sombre import, to my soul, in the sunniest hour ; and 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 163 

then I hasten to her side, and gather her in the clasp of my 
strong arm. 

Do I sin in this wild love, this passion for God's creature, 
when in its impetuosity I forget not to bless the Creator of 
tiie happiness which is vouchsafed me ? No, Eda, it cannot 
be! 

But a sweet voice is calling to me from the garden, and I 
must close a letter which would be wearisome and dull to you, 
were I not convinced that even Arthur Herbert has never won 
from me the loving inquisitiveness of your girlhood, which was 
wont to penetrate, in the days of our youth, every recess of 
the heart of Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

Heath Hall, July. 

The roses of June were in their glory when I last wrote to 
you, but their leaves now lie withered upon the turf. Days 
passed into weeks, weeks into months, alone mark the season 
to me, so brief the interval seems since I brought hither my 
bride. I should mourn over the swift passing of these bright 
days to the abyss of the past, did not the future unroll, in the 
ever-increasing vigor of Elise's health, the promise of the same 
tranquil happiness. 

Five months ago to-day we were wedded ; and here, where 
scarce a spire of grass was discernible, the rich harvest of the 
hay-maker now loads with fragrance the air, and our joy has 
grown apace with the luxuriance of nature. But we smile 
whea we remember that a shadow shall draw near, a cloud 
shall settle down and obscure the glory of gorgeous summer, 
while no frost can wither the beauty of the floweret Love blos- 
soming in our hearts. 

You never vex me, Eda ; but you win a smile when you 
ask, in your quaint, serious way, if we have no other duty 
than to live thus for ourselves alone, — if I cannot perceive a 
duty towards society, my fellow-beings, to execute. Ah ! I 



164 HEATH hall; or, 

perceive 1 have not yet been able to make you comprehend 
truly our life ; — I write you its poetry, nothing of its prose. 

Elise I perceive you regard but as a spoilt, beautiful child, 
who I am encouraging in her extreme sensitiveness, that I 
may enjoy the pleasure of shielding, guarding from all annoy- 
ance. You fear that when I have succeeded in incapacitating 
her to endure all trial, she will, in the end, weary me by her 
helplessness, and rouse me from the tranquillity which is un- 
natural to a vigorously-constituted man, like me. 

You think, too, that then I shall require a spirit more con- 
genial with the awakened vigor of manhood. 0, Eda, how 
difficult it will be for me to make you — you, with your exu- 
berant spirits, your high health — realize that this girl, serene 
and ethereal in appearance as she is, is capable of emotions as 
deep and endurable, of performing her duties with as much 
resolution, as yourself ! 

But, to answer your first question. You advise me to take 
this creature of impulse and affection, this artless child of 
nature, into the world, — to throw her, enthusiastic, unsus- 
pecting as she is, into the midst of such beings as Maud Ruth- 
erford, — to open eyes hitherto blind to the hypocrisy, the con- 
ventionalisms, of society. And for what purpose, Eda, must 
she resign her happy home-life, that the influence of one pure 
heart may fall a chance sunbeam upon the crowd ? 

You think Elise should know more of life's actualities before 
she is called upon to prepare human hearts for its struggles 
and its strife. Eda, I would not, to benefit all mankind, sac- 
rifice one iota of my young wife's ignorance of what comprises 
life as it is in the world's acceptance of the term ; call me 
selfish, believe me such, — anything better than to contami- 
nate her. 

It is not Elise's beauty, not her graceful enchantments, 
which bind my love ; but this child-like unconsciousness of 
sin. 

Secluded as is the life we lead, it is yet not wholly divested 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 165 

of good will and charity towards man. By the servants of 
our house Elise is idolized, and in the country round, where 
her unostentatious charity has been received by many. 

Since her marriage she has received, from time to time, 
letters from Mr. Ancott. They are usually brief, and evince 
little affection ; but to-day one has arrived more affectionate 
in its tone ; — perchance his child's happiness begins to awaken 
an echo in the paternal breast. 

Of her mother Elise has no remembrance, as she died in 
her infancy ; but some strange mystery evidently clings to 
her memory. 

For to-day, dear Eda, farewell. Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

Heath Hall, October. 

Eda, I am very weak ! I have fancied myself strong, but 
I am not. In the sunshine of prosperity I was very confident 
and vain of my strength, but with the first blast of adversity 
I am bowed low in bitter despair. 

Eda, a tempest has bent the head of my beautiful flower ; 
clouds have crept over the horizon of our life. Fool have I 
been to dream serenely on in my blind infatuation, until the 
blow came all at once, heavily, and with acutest pain. 

I had been married eight months, — yes, not quite a year, 
— when one morning, while Elise yet slept, I went into the 
garden to gather a handful of the last flowers of autumn, the 
leaves of which were already crisped by the frost. I thought 
to lay them by her pillow, to greet her on awakening. The 
closed door of her chamber barred my entrance. I tapped 
softly, saying " Elise, it is I ! " There was a moment's 
silence ; then she answered, " Go away, Ralph ! " I obeyed, 
thinking her maid was with her ; but I met the maid below, 
and then knew that my wife must be alone. I was surprised ; 
it was not Elise's wont to refuse me admittance : but I con- 



166 ^ HEATH hall; or, 

tented myself with leaving the bouquet at her door, and 
entered the library, and took up a book. I remained there 
until Tony summoned me to breakfast. I expected to join 
Elise in the breakfast-room ; but she was not there. She came 
in soon, however, and took her seat at the table, looking pale 
and languid. She spoke seldom during the breakfast, though 
I did all in my power to cheer and amuse her. When she 
arose, she approached the fire, and spread her chilled hands 
to the blaze, standing there, with her soft, warm, crimson 
dressing-gown sweeping about her, with her fair, child-like 
countenance clouded by a vague melancholy. When I ap- 
proached her, imagine my amazement — she repulsed me — 
Elise, my flower! my darling! — not angrily, but sorrowfully. 
I stood silent, gazing mutely upon her, when tears began to 
steal down her white cheeks. 

I was so much astonished, Eda, that I experienced pro- 
found embarrassment ; but, realizing that there was no one 
but myself to comfort her, I felt it a duty to conquer my 
reluctance. So I drew her to my knee, made her rest her 
little face in my bosom, and proposed to send for my motherly 
Eda to care for her. 

She had never alluded to the new life quickening into being 
at her heart ; and she sprang up instantly, with her hands 
folded over her bosom as one in pain, and began to plead, in 
a strange, incoherent way, with me, — with me, who had 
never required more than an intimation of a wish of hers to 
fulfil it. And what, think you, was the burden of Elise's 
prayer? — Freedom ! It seemed that I had wearied the poor 
child with my care ; she had felt like a captive bird, whose 
every note its master claimed. 

" Sufier me, Ralph, for a few days, for a little while, to 
be a girl again. Keep far from me ; do not look upon me ; 
give me quiet solitude ! I have never experienced freedom. 
He used to watch over me in coldness and anger ; you have 
done so in love. But I would so like to be a girl — a free, 



A PACKA.QE OF LETTERS. 167 

unconstrained girl, for one little week I Are you angry with 
me, Ralph?" 

Angry with her ! How could I be, because a girlish caprice 
had taken possession of her mind ? Yet, had the fancy 
occurred to her at any earlier period, I would have rendered 
at once ready compliance with her request; but it was so 
inconceivably strange to plead thus for the semblance of 
girlhood with another condition but a little way off. 

" How can you be a girl, Elise ? " I asked, with something 
of impatience, as my glance rested upon her. She- compre- 
hended me at once, crimsoned brow and bosom, and left me 
hastily. I was grieved; I felt wounded by her conduct; 
but I soon remembered that it was wrong for me to experi- 
ence anger born of a woman's whim, and I went out in search 
of her. 

She was not in her octagon room ; neither was she in her 
chamber ; but, as I passed the drawing-room door, which was 
ajar, I heard a deep sigh, and went in. A pile of dark 
drapery lay upon one of the sofas, only dimly seen in the 
shadowy light of the room. I approached ; it was Elise, 
weeping, weeping passionately, and for the first time since 
she had been mine. I besought her to go with me to her 
boudoir, for the air there was damp, and she was icy cold ; 
but she only wept the more. So, without saying another 
word, I lifted her in my arms, as I would have lifted a child, 
and carried her there, placing her upon a couch, where the 
sun's rays fell brightest. Then, seating myself by her side, 
I spoke seriously with her. 

" Elise, this is all very childish. I look for more of 
womanly dignity in you now. Do you not comprehend me ? 
You must yield your childishness now." 

She had ceased to weep ; her blue eyes were raised to 
mine with something like terror. She strove to withdraw her- 
self from my encircling arm. For a moment a throb of 
anger beat through ray heart. I sprang up, and with hur- 



168 HEATH hall; or, 

ried step, traversed the apartment. When I turned, Elise 
was passing from the room. I was angry but for the mo- 
ment; strange, incomprehensible as was her conduct, I could 
not remain angry with her. But through all that long day I 
did not seek her. 

Early in the evening, as I sat before the library fire, with 
no other light than its beams, a woman's silken robe trailed 
slowly over the floor, and Elise nestled down by my side, 
without a word, her golden curls falling about me. A pang 
of remorse for my neglect during the day shot over me ; I 
stretched forth my hand, and lifted her to my knee. Like a 
drooping flower her head fell upon my broad chest, the red 
lips sought my bearded cheek, and to the murmured lullaby 
of love-words she sank asleep. Calm, tranquil as an infant, 
she slept, a faint sigh alone trembling at intervals on the 
deep silence. 

As the fire-light fell over her, I fancied there was a dark 
circle about the closed lids, around the small mouth an 
expression of pain. She had always seemed so fragile that I 
could never endure to think of suffering in connection with 
her. Troubled thoughts came sweeping over me ; a dim pre- 
sentiment of future woe, in which she had part. But I strove 
to think that I, the powerful man, could shield her, the frail 
child ; for a mere child she seemed to me, though I that very 
day bade her put childish thoughts from her forever. I 
endeavored to think it was the shadow of our first difference, 
my first harshness towards her, that pressed upon my spirits ; 
but the fancy had no weight. A denser gloom seemed brood- 
ing over me, and just then the thin little white hands folded 
themselves over her bosom, and she smiled so joyously, so 
radiantly, that I bowed my head involuntarily to those 
wreathing lips. But they were whispering " Willie ! darling 
Willie ! " again and again, and each time in softer tones. I 
longed to awaken her, and learn who was this Willie, this 
childish name, which in her sleep she murmured with such an 



A PACKAGE OP LETTERS. 169 

expression of tenderness. But the smile faded, the lips became 
compressed, the smooth brow ruffled ; great tears stole out 
and trembled upon her cheeks ; she whispered sorrowfully of 
her southern home, and awoke with a troubled expression. 

" Were you dreaming, Elise, darling ? " I questioned ; but 
she was looking about her with the same troubled look, as if 
in search of some one who she fancied present, and not quite 
comprehending where she was. 

All through that night she would sigh and murmur in 
her restless sleep ; but when, with a certain firm tenderness, 
I would speak to her, she would become at once momentarily 
tranquil. 

While she yet slept I ordered my horse saddled, and in the 
early morning rode over to consult Dr. Francis ; for I felt 
that Elise was now actually ill. He reassured me, and prom- 
ised to drop in, as though casually, during the day. I rode 
rapidly homeward, desiring to return before she left her 
chamber, as I was unwilling for her to learn the cause of my 
absence. As I dashed hastily around to the back entrance, 
to my infinite chagrin and surprise I beheld her standing on 
the north balcony opening from the drawing-room. There 
had been a heavy frost during the night, and the morning air 
was keen and penetrating. She had neither mantle or shawl 
on to protect her from its influence. 

I motioned her to go in ; but she paid me no heed, and 
remained gazing down, with that strange expression which 
had of late been growing on her. 

"Elise, are you mad, to expose yourself thus ? " I said, 
almost angrily, as I approached her. She shivered, passed 
her hand across her forehead, and raised her lips, blue with 
the cold, to my cheek. The act annihilated all sternness on 
my part. I drew her arm within mine, and led her to the 
breakfast-room. The fire burnt cheerily on the hearth, and I 
made her sit down before the bright blaze, and chafed her 
15 



170 HEATH hall; or, 

numb hands, while the color began to glow upon her cheek, 
her own sunny smiles to gather about her lip. 

As the blood began to circulate more swiftly, she grew ani- 
mated, and chattered away to me, until it seemed as though 
the whole room was filled with the soft music of her voice. 

When breakfast was brought in she dismissed Tony, and, 
murmuring something about having been very petulant the 
previous day, insisted upon waiting on me herself. Thus, by 
many little trifling ways, she appeared to entreat my forgive- 
ness — to atone for the past. Once more Elise was herself. 

When the breakfast things were removed she took her 
sewing, and, sitting in the old arm-chair by my side, begged 
me to read to her. I took up a volume of Spenser, but she 
replaced it with a translation of Petrarch's impassioned verse. 

While seated there, even as I read memory wandered back 
to the days when you had sat beside me, as Elise did ; and I 
recalled how you once leaned your head upon my shoulder, 
and read with me. You were full of exuberant life ; you 
were impassioned as the poet's conception ; you were keener 
in your comprehension of bard and author's revelation than 
myself, and led my spirit upward with the flight of your 
own ; but Elise was with me frail, languid and silent. 

Heaven pardon me! I believe I was almost weary, that 
morning, of the blessed child's helplessness. 

The morning had nearly passed, when I perceived that she 
was listening intently. Then I heard a step coming through 
the hall, which I easily divined to be the doctor's ; but, when 
he entered, I arose and greeted him, as if for the first time 
that day. 

While he remained Elise was evidently agitated and 
nervous. I think he noticed her uneasiness, for he rose soon 
and bade her good-morning, but not until he had said, with a 
significant glance towards myself, " You must be very com- 
plaisant and good to this delicate little flower, which blossoms 
in this cold north home of yours." 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 171 

When I followed him to the hall again, he repeated that I 
must seek but to amuse and gratify Elise in every whim in 
which she could possibly be indulged. When I returned, she 
questioned impatiently if he had gone ; and when I answered 
in the affirmative, added, " Don't go for him again, Ralph." 

It is now several weeks since this occurred, and her con- 
duct since has been capricious as the sunshine of an April 
day. But even with her unreasonable waywardness there is 
mingled so much of unfathomable sadness that I experience 
only uneasiness; I cannot be angry with her. That she strug- 
gles with this sorrow which oppresses her I cannot doubt ; 
for there will be hours when she will be brilliant in her almost 
wild merriment. 

For some unknown reason, she has conceived so great an 
aversion to Dr. Francis that I have thought it best not to 
again desire him to visit her ; although she has so changed 
that I tremble to look at her. If you, Eda, can leave your 
home, will you not come, at my entreaty, and see if you can 
discover what it is which preys thus on the happiness of my 
beloved ? Your womanly tact may win her to unburden her 
spirit to you. Come, then, Eda, once more to your old home, 
— you, with both physical and mental strength combined 
in blessed unity, making you a support for the weak. Adieu. 

Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

JVovember. 



I shall not now importune you to come to us ; neither do I 
regret that the duty which you owe at home has kept you 
from complying when I called upon you for assistance, — much 
less reproach you. Your presence is unneeded. I was mis- 
taken ; you could not have comforted Elise. God alone has 
the power.. 

By some strange, unhappy fluctuation in her destiny and 
mine, she has ceased to love me, and without palpable cause. 



172 HEATH hall; Oil. 

She upbraids herself none the less, and in secret accuses her 
own heart of falsehood towards me. She has found, probably, 
as womanhood has rolled upon her, that there is an ideal in 
her heart of which she has been unconscious hitherto, and the 
realization of which has not yet been revealed to her. She 
dreads lest it be, and she find herself chained without the 
possibility of freedom. The thought haunts her, — has be- 
come a mania, which she has not the strength to wrestle with. 

When her suffering first became apparent in an irrepress- 
ible mournfulness of manner, I reproached myself with hav- 
ing immured her youth and beauty in this dim old house ; but 
I perceive now that the catastrophe which she dreads would 
have been elsewhere consummated. In the many who would 
have crowded about her in adoration of her loveliness, she 
would, doubtless, have found one congenial to her youth, her 
acute delicacy of organization, — more so, at least, than the 
dark-browed man, nearly twice her years, whom she now calls 
husband. The very impetuosity of my aff"ection has, I fear, 
repulsed her. I perceive now the utter falsity of the expect- 
ation of perfect happiness ; the semblance of it is but a 
mockery, to lure us on to misery. 

But, in justice to Elise, I must sufi'er you to form no erro- 
neous opinion of her. She is all that is pure, truthful and 
good, though overwhelmed by her misfortune. No act of hers, 
no conscious word, has revealed the truth wittingly to me ; 
nothing but the spirit of unrest, haunting even her slumbers, 
has given it voice. One night I watched her sadly as she 
slept, when all at once she began to speak in broken, incoher- 
ent words ; but sufficient was audible to convince me of the 
truth. All her petulance has now disappeared, and an ineffa- 
ble sweetness of manner has taken its place ; but it is blended 
with a melancholy so profound as to fill me with despair. 

In comparison with the beauty and happiness which this 
home possessed during the summer months, the contrast is 
great indeed. The trees are stripped of their foliage, and 



i 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 178 

wave their naked branches mournfully in the chill autumnal 
air. 

We have a visitor now with us. You will remember the 
young artist Rutherford, who painted the much-admired por- 
trait of his couain Maud. When I looked upon the superb 
beauty of that well-remembered face, but which bore the im- 
press of worldliness and pride, the vision of the fair, pure 
lineaments of Elise rose before me, and I desired that the 
same pencil should portray her also. At the time, he was 
much engaged ; but the week past he has come to us, and, to 
his infinite surprise, recognizes an old friend in Elise. 

His presence evidently gives her pleasure. They talk 
together of their childhood, and bygone memories withdraw 
her from contemplation of the future. 

Through the brightest hours of the morning she sits to him 
in her boudoir ; and the face, Eda, which grows in beauty on 
his canvas, the world might worship in its wondrous loveliness. 
But ah, Eda ! it is a different type of beauty from that I once 
dreamed of. The large eyes beam with a brilliancy half 
shadowed by their drooping lashes; tears have evidently 
faded the deep rose from the cheek, which is wasted and 
transparent ; and bygone incidents, which Rutherford recalls 
to memory, make the sweet lips tremulous with feeling. 

The artist worships this creation of his genius. He is lost 
in his art. Wrapt in his own dreams, he perceives not that 
a secret sorrow elevates and deepens the beauty of the divine 
countenance which he portrays. 

Evidently unconscious of the connection once existing be- 
tween his cousin and myself, he said to me this morning, while 
I watched his progress, " Fortune has been to me beneficent 
in giving to my pencil the beauty of two such women as your 
wife and my cousin to portray. One is the beauty of woman ; 
the other, that of an angel." And he bent with enthusiasm 
over his canvas. 

Write to me, Eda, Your love will soothe, strengthen your 
15^ 



174 HEATH hall; or, 

brother, and pierce with a beam of sunlight the darkness of 
his destiny. In deepest sorrow, Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

JSTovemher. 

More than ever, Eda, do I now require the consolation of 
your affection ; for an eternity of sorrow has swept upon me. 
I am like one alone on a desert, boundless, interminable, sur- 
rounded by utter desolation. In the far-off vista of the 
future could I but behold one budding flower of hope, how- 
ever pale and wan a thing, the life-blood which now seems to 
stagnate at my heart would start convulsive, and burn in 
exquisite pain through every vein. ! the anguish which 
knows no bitterness, no other sense than that of desolation ! 
It is such emotion that I now experience. 

The realization of the ideal of Elise's heart is revealed in 
the person of this child of genius, — this young artist-boy. 
The love which was not for me, the world-seared man, has 
sprung into a bright, strong flame, kindled by his presence. 
Would that he were less innocent of this spontaneous lighting 
and quickening into existence all the woman of her being, 
that passionate indignation against him might melt the ice 
congealing the life-blood at my heart ! But no ; he came 
guileless of his creative power, — still he knows it not. He 
dreams not, as his brush adds yet another touch of beauty to 
the beloved lineaments before him, that it is the heavenly 
effulgence of spirit beaming in those soft eyes, the emotion 
of the woman's heart perceptible in the trembling lip, which 
he worships, which he bends over in silent ecstatic wonder, 
and believes his own creation. 

Should he awake to sudden consciousness of the truth, I 
believe he would recoil in abhorrence of himself. Pure and 
spiritual of soul, there appears to appertain to him nothing 
of that sensuousness or grossness of spirit adherent to most 
men. He could not endure, unveiled of all disguise, the 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 175 

naked conviction of loving one whom destiny had already con- 
signed to another ; he would recoil from it in terror. But, 
stealing like a dream of rare beauty, it rushes upon his artist 
imagination ; unrealized, it intoxicates his soul. What to 
him is invisible, is too apparent to me ; and I dread his 
awakening to the terrible reality, not for his sake, — no, Eda, 
it is not in human nature to feel for those who injure us so 
deeply, even though it be unwittingly, — but for her who I, 
in my selfishness, bound in her youth to my maturity. 

The portrait is nearly completed. I gaze upon it with 
mingled adoration and despair. Elise's glance I shun. I 
dare not meet it ; it would madden me with its grief. I 
execrate E-utherford when absent for the profound sadness 
which he has perpetuated in this unhappy painting. But 
when he confronts me with his serene, open brow, his dark 
hazel eye, fearless and truthful, — the mirror, as it were, of 
a pure spirit, over whose waters ripple but the sunshine of 
beauty, — and I turn my conscious glance upon the turbid 
waves of jealous passion and angry doubt surging through 
my own being, I experience only shame and self-rebuke. 

Yesterday Elise gave him a last sitting. I thought her 
alone, and entered her boudoir. He was bending over his 
easel, with his glance resting upon the canvas ; both were 
silent, and unaware of my entrance. Unwilling to disturb 
them, I seated myself in a remote corner, without speaking. 
For a long time they remained mute, until at length, with a 
breath so deep-drawn as to approach a sigh, Rutherford laid 
aside his brush, and, taking from the table a bouquet of flowers 
which I had myself gathered for Elise that morning, he selected 
a few half-opened buds, and handed them to her, as he said, 
with a faint smile, 

" It is a long time since I have brought you flowers. In 
our old home, Elise, I gathered you fairer ones than these." 

A heavy tear fell over his companion's cheek ; she raised 
the flowers to her lips, and her glance to his. It was wild 



176 HEATH hall; or, 

and sad, and she answered, softly, " Go, Willie ! he will be 
very angry if he learns this. He will not suffer you to be 
even a brother to me, — you whom I love — love so dearly, 
Willie ! » 

I could not see his face when these terrible words fell upon 
my ear ; but I beheld him start, and heard him say, in ear- 
nest, imploring tones, " 0, Elise ! are you so unfortunate? 
Grod help you ! " and I stole out noiseless as I had entered. 
But my brain was burning. I pressed my hands to my ears 
to shut out the words which were echoing there over and over 
again ; but it was useless. I could not endure that the same 
roof should cover William Rutherford and myself. 

I went out into the woodland. The autumn sun shone 
brightly ; it penetrated with its glory even the recess in the 
forest's heart where the pine-trees cast a shadow below. But 
I heeded not the checkered rays of golden light streaming 
sunnily over the crisped and withered leaves upon which I lay, 
recalling the past, the happiness of which mocked alike the 
present and the future. I recalled the day when I first 
marked the shadow come over her. I remembered the name 
which she had uttered in the restlessness of a troubled slum- 
ber ; and then a dreary, miserable conviction of deceit on her 
part, and bitter treachery towards myself, began to dawn upon 
me. She had feigned an affection which she had never ex- 
perienced. That there was nothing pure, nothing reliable, 
upon earth, I began then fully to realize. I strove to con- 
sider calmly the duty which I owed both to her and myself. 
That we must part, I understand ; I have no wish now to the 
contrary. Perchance, in deceiving me, Elise has also deceived 
herself. In her soul I yet believe her to be pure ; that she 
has but yielded now, for the first time, to a momentary 
weakness. 

She misunderstands me, and, accordingly, is unjust. They 
were unkind words she uttered against me ; but, for the love 
1 have borne her, and bear her still, I can forgive her. A 



A PACKAGE OP LETTERS. 177 

little while, and when our child is born I will depart from 
hence. She will forget, in the consolation of her child's 
presence, her present sorrow. I have lost all anger towards 
Elise ; for I perceive how resolutely she secludes herself from 
Rutherford, as though in atonement of the moment's weak- 
ness. He, too, seems oppressed with a secret unhappiness ; 
he has not the expression of one who triumphs in the knowl- 
edge of a return of affection on the part of the adored one. 

Once or twice he has sought to address me. What he can 
dare to say to me I cannot divine ; but I have an instinctive 
fear lest it be of her, and I check him, — I turn from him. 
I could not endure that. 

Eda, to you I have poured out my whole soul. But do not 
offer me either sympathy or pity ; only increase the tender- 
ness of your affection, and thus furnish the only balm for the 
heart of Balpii. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

December. 

It is the last hour — ah! the dying moment of the old 
year. With the passing of the fierce winter storm which has 
swept the earth has fled dark suspicion, frantic and miserable 
jealousy. Over the darkness of my spirit has broken a gleam 
of light, — light as pure as the snow-flakes which cover, in 
one vast white robe, the dark bosom of the earth. 

The chime of the old clock on the stairs announces the 
birth of the new year ; and simultaneously the moon, breaking 
forth from a cloud, floods the window-panes, and falls upon 
the floor in tremulous raj'-s of silver light. 

Is not this breaking of glorious light on the deep gloom of 
midnight an omen of good to us all ? Hark ! it comes ; 
there is no mistaking it. The silent chambers and empty 
halls of this old house echo as in gladness a sound which, for 
long years, has slept with the past ; which has not echoed 
therein since even I, a frail infant, lay upon the bosom of my 



178 HEATH HALL, OR, 

mother. It is the low, faint wail of a new life. passing 
tempest ! glancing moonbeams, and serene new year ! Be 
thou harbingers of joy to the young traveller who, in the 
spotlessness of infancy, has joined the pilgrims of earth. 

" Thou art a father ! " fell upon my ear four weeks ago 
to-day; but the blessed sentence found echo in a heart closed, 
I deemed for aye. The first pressure of my lips on the soft 
cheek of my child awoke electric into passionate life a father's 
love and tenderness. There was then something yet to live 
for, a love which might yet be mine. With such wild ear- 
nestness, such intense joy, did I press the frail thing to my 
heart, that old Hester took him hastily from me. 

She was Elise's nurse, and has come to tend her child's 
infancy. 

" Missus Elise would like to see massa?" said the old wom- 
an, interrogatingly. I doubted it, but passed through the 
nursery to her chamber. 

In the dim light I could see the wan, white face. In deep 
repose the long dark lashes swept the thin cheek, and the 
golden hair lay dishevelled about her. No sigh, not a breath, 
broke the profound silence ; but a heavenly calm was diffused 
over the whole countenance. Moment after moment I stood, 
and gazed upon her, while memory recalled the hours of our 
happiness, — the profession of her early love for me, with a 
conviction of its existence, — and, as I looked, a change crept 
over her, though not a muscle stirred. An irresistible impulse 
seized me. I clasped her hands ; they were icy cold and damp. 
I believed death's shadow was on her, and a strange revolu- 
tion of feeling came over me. The love which had frozen at 
my heart gushed forth in warmth and passionateness ; her 
broken faith was forgotten. A warm kiss lingered on her 
lips, a despairing voice murmured, ''Die not, leave me not, 
Elise ! Awake, awake to love, to joy, to life ! " She shud- 
dered as one convulsed, and I held her in strong, warm clasp 
until it passed. 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 179 

" Our child, Ralph ! " came softly from her parting lips ; 
and her glance, full of unutterable emotion, was raised to 
mine. 

Old accents, old glances of tenderness ! "Was I dreaming 
still, or was the past all madness, all delusion? I scarce 
dared hope that I was not deceived, and yet clung passionately 
to the belief. 

For days I was not suffered to approach her ; and I sub- 
mitted meekly to the decree, with a humility which was 
deepening with the belief of some mysterious delusion on my 
part. 

And, 0, Eda, most grievously have I indeed sinned, in my 
blind wilfulness, against this poor, suffering child ! 

Madness has now been inherent for three or four genera- 
tions in the female branch of Elise's family, invariably mani- 
festing itself shortly previous, and passing with the- birth of a 
child. 

From Elise's nurse I have learned the sad story of her 
unhappy mother, and the cause of her father's austere and 
L-olated life. 

At the period of her marriage she was a brilliant belle, 
but loving and impulsive as a little child. Vain of the ad- 
miration bestowed on his wife, Mr. Ancott had encouraged 
the gay life which she led, until, at length, with his almost 
idolatrous affection there mingled a jealous doubt of one 
whose adoration of the beautiful Mrs. Ancott became too 
apparent to escape him, although wholly unnoticed by its 
object. He determined to withdraw her at once from the 
notoriety and danger of the attention which, with unconscious 
levity, she was encouraging ; and, on her remonstrance at 
being forced, in the very height of the gay season, to leave all 
and depart with him to his quiet country-home in Virginia, 
he unwisely gave way to a burst of angry passion. 

Then the indulged creature of affection, who knew no will 
but her own, in the pride of her woman's heart revolted at the 
cruel doubt of her husband. 



180 HEATH hall; or. 

The passionate indignation, the cold scorn, of the insulted 
wife, instead of allaying, only confirmed his suspicion of her 
coldness towards him ; and with feelings of mingled love and 
bitterness they departed for their home. A severe cold taken 
on the journey, and wilfully disregarded by the unhappy wife, 
brought on a fit of illness ; and from that time until the birth 
of Elise, — some months subsequent, — Mrs. Ancott gave 
evidence of unmistakable insanity, though varied by many 
lucid intervals, in which she gave way to the deepest despond- 
ency. In her delirium she would recall the scenes of the 
happy past ; and then the name of one whom she had thought 
of with little interest previous to her misery, would linger 
in accents of tenderness upon her lips. 

Soon after her child's birth, when in the full possession of 
her reason, a few days prior to her death, she called Hester 
to her, and bade her watch carefully the motherless child 
which she was to rear, and forever keep from her the secret 
of her mother's fate. 

It was no secret, however, to those who had been with her. 
Mr. Ancott remained alone wilfully blind to the truth. 

Dr. Rutherford — young Rutherford's father — attended 
the unfortunate one, and to his earnest endeavors during her 
life to convince Mr. Ancott of the nature and probably tempo- 
rary length of her affliction, was to be attributed the extreme 
aversion which he conceived, on his wife's death, to the 
physician, and which was manifested in after years when he 
learnt that the young boy who brought Elise flowers and fruit 
was the son of Dr. Rutherford. 

Thus the entire household, with whom the boy was a great 
favorite, were forbidden to encourage his presence ; but still at 
intervals he came, and as Elise grew into girlhood he would 
accompany her in long rambles through the woods. 

When a rumor of their intimacy first reached the ear of 
Mr. Ancott, he at once summoned his daughter to his pres- 
ence ; and so completely did his sternness overawe the elo- 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 181 

quence with which the poor child sought to extenuate her 
companion from all blame, that she never ventured thereafter 
to disobey his commands. 

Convinced by Hester's revelation, and the addition of Dr. 
Francis' testimony, who ventured, when the crisis was passed, 
to communicate to me that he had, from the first, divined a 
suspicion of the truth, I awaited with intense impatience the 
day on which I was to be admitted to Elise's presence. 

I could not realize fully how visionary, indeed, had been 
my doubt of her faith, until she herself said, as, standing by 
my side, she gazed from her window into the barren garden, 
" All seems like a dark, troubled dream to me, Ralph, since I 
last gazed on yonder trees, robed in the foliage of summer." 

" Sufier it to pass, like all sorrowful dreams, my wife," I 
answered, filled with contrition for the wrong I had done her. 
She looked at me, sighed softly, and turned to her child. 

Can it be that a dim memory of my unkindness yet haunts 
her? — a knowledge that my faith was not quite strong 
enough to support my love in the hour of darkness and 
trouble, which oppresses her ? 

She speaks not of "William Rutherford ; makes no allusion 
to his having been here, or the portrait of herself hanging in 
the octagon room, as yet unvisited. A mother's love seems 
to have matured her whole being. She knows no fatigue, no 
weakness, when her child requires her care. And yet there 
is nothing approaching to idolatry in her affection for her 
infant ; it is a love so firm, so tender, so religious, that the 
angels in heaven may look down upon it in reverence. She 
communes much with her own spirit and her Creator. I am 
conscious there is diffused over her expressive countenance 
a holy serenity, when I come to her unexpectedly, as she 
sits quietly with her boy on her knee. If she was my ideal 
of a wife in the few happy months which followed our bridal, 
how much more is she so now as a mother ! 

She is very quiet ; so are we all ; but it is the serenity of 
16 



182 HEATH hall; or, 

perfect peace. Our first era of wedded life was like radiant 
sunlight ; that which follows the storm has the holiness, the 
purity, of moonlight. Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

February. 

Our child has fallen asleep ! Elise will not suffer me to 
say it is dead. She bids me tell you " our little one has gone 
to sleep with the angels." After I last wrote to you, its 
mother's watchful eye perceived that even until then, as it 
grew in vigor and beauty, it began to droop and fade. 

It was Elise's voice which first told me that our boy must 
go ; that God was calling him to be an angel in heaven ; and 
even while she bent above him, and strove to awaken the 
dying life, she taught me to say, " God's will be done ! " But 
over the little waxen hands which she folded on her child's 
bosom, as his last breath fell upon her cheek, rained the warm 
tears, speaking a mother's desolation. 

When from her child she turned again to me, there seemed 
to be yet another and closer reiinion. 

To-day, for the first time, she has looked upon her portrait. 
She was leaning on my arm, when I led her once more to her 
boudoir, illumined by the morning sun, the air sweet with 
the breath of flowers, her bird singing melodiously in its cage. 
The tightening of her hand upon my arm revealed the sudden 
pang as she recalled the treasure which she had received 
and parted from in the interval. 

A sigh parted her lip, but it was in sadness ; no bitterness 
mingled with its sorrow. But suddenly her glance fell upon 
the painting before her. With a convulsive start she stood a 
moment gazing upon it ; once she passed her hand across her 
forehead, once she slightly bowed her head in that attitude 
which denotes a moment of intense thought, as though she 
were striving to recall some bygone memory. 

At length she turned slowly to me. 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 183 

"Who painted that, Kalph?" she questioned, in a fright- 
ened, troubled voice. 

" William Rutherford, Elise," I answered, involuntarily, in 
the moment's embarrassment. 

Twice, erQ she spoke, I beheld the small white hands close 
and part again with a gesture of intense pain and despair, as 
she stood with averted face ; then again she turned round, and 
most lovely, Eda, even in its deep woe, was that young face. 

" It was, then, no troubled dream of a fevered brain ! " she 
began, with her hand upon her heart. " I have been mock- 
ing my own reason in the vain belief that in the delirium of 
long weeks you comprehended my misfortune. But with that 
name light breaks upon the darkness. I was mad, and you 
could not see it. I knew when it crept slowly upon me, as 
on my poor mother. I watched in horror its approach ; in 
secret prayed, when its spell was not upon me, to be reserved 
from its misery. There were sane moments, which I now 
recall, amid all the chaos of those weary days, when I awoke 
to know you changed, to behold you distant and cold. I have 
been fancying that I had dreamed these fancies in the wild- 
ness of my delirium ; but now I know it all, — you doubted 
me, — me, Ralph I " She covered her face with her hands, 
for in moments of such profound grief we are unwilling any 
one but Grod should look upon us. 

Terribly rebuked, agonized by that first sudden outbreak 
of innocent sorrow, I could not at first answer her ; but when, 
looking up, she said to me, with a faint, painful smile, " Why 
have you changed, — why recall the old love ? Do you think 
that I am mad now, Ralph, and has pity usurped the place 
of anger?" her words, deeply as they wounded, served to 
arouse me. 

" 0, Elise," I said, " pardon me I You cannot know how 
terribly I also have sufi'ered. It was my adoration of you, 
the consciousness of my own unworthiness in all things of your 
afiection, that led me, in the hour of our first difference, to 



184 - HEATH hall; OR, 

believe that the love of one like me could never suffice for 
your happiness. In your unconsciousness, beloved one, you 
withdrew ever further from me ; and I, in my blindness, could 
not perceive the cloud which had enveloped you. And, ! 
Elise, in your delirium you gave utterance to strange words 
falling from the lips of a wife ; and I knew not then that they 
were idle words of illness." 

" I have no right to upbraid, Ralph ; I was wrong, even in 
the first bitterness, to have done so ; you have more than 
myself to forgive," she answered, meekly ; and we are never 
again to allude to the past. 

I can perceive no perceptible change in her, only that she 
is become more subdued. There are times when I find her 
weeping in solitude ; but it is a mother's grief for the loss 
which she has sustained in her child, and for a season she 
must be suffered its indulgence. 

That we are both very sad, you must suppose, after what 
has past; but we are not unhappy. " Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

March. 

You will be surprised to receive a letter from me here ; 
but we have already been three weeks in New York. 

After I last wrote to you, Elise grew so ill that Dr. 
Francis became imperative in his order for a change of scene 
for her ; and, to my surprise, Elise acquiesced at once. I 
think I comprehend her reason. She dreads the return of 
that delirium which she has so much reason to fear. Rut a 
wonderful change has become apparent in her since she has 
been here. Not only has she cast off all mental depression, 
but she has also physically improved ; a brilliant color glows 
upon her cheek, and her eyes beam, at times, so radiantly as 
to attract many a glance of wonder and admiration. 

I should be surprised by the avidity with which one 
Jjitherto so retiring and reserved has plunged at once into the 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 185 

gayest society, were it not that I believe her to be influenced 
by the same reason which brought her here. And I do not 
object; it may dissipate her sadness, and I myself have no 
apprehension of her fears being realized. 

There have been times when I have pictured to myself the 
excitement which Elise would create in society ; and I cannot 
but experience a certain degree of pride, as I mark her so 
courted and admired as she is by all, yet mingling guileless, 
artless as a child, amid the world. 

Last night my wife and Maud Kutherford met. It was 
at a brilliant party, and Elise, to whom the past is known, 
gazed on her with interest, and speaks with enthusiasm of her 
beauty. I fancy a far different impression was made upon 
her by my gentle Elise. 

Unobserved, I was gazing upon the two when they met. 
Elise, surrounded by her friends, was speaking of the charm 
of a country life, and a little way off stood Maud watching 
her, her proud lip slightly curled, as in contempt of Elise's 
girlish enthusiasm ; but all at once, as a remembrance of 
sorrow flitted across that fair, expressive face, and the worn and 
restless expression which comes over her at intervals became 
visible, a deeper earnestness was manifested in the dark eyes 
which observed her — a faint smile of exultation, as though 
Maud rejoiced in the suffering of the wife of Ralph Heath. 
Again I thought how varied was the beauty of the two who 
were before me, and in my heart there grew a new bitterness 
towards Maud. To the falsehood of her youth might I not, 
in a degree, attribute that very expression on Elise's counte- 
nance ? for it was she who taught me doubt of all, when I 
discovered that lips which I believed pure in their truthful- 
ness were desecrated by treachery. Though time had dimmed 
the recollection of her perjured faith in the hour of trial, it 
had cast its Upas-like shadow upon me, and confounded truth 
with falsehood. 

Yes, Maud Rutherford, to you I am indebted for the 
16^ 



186 HEATH hall; oe, 

bitter fruit which I reaped, in after time, from the seed which 
your falsehood sowed in the trustful heart of youth ; and 
with the remembrance a cloud came out of the past, and fell 
over you; and I beheld, as you stood before me in your 
rich evening apparel, with the jewels for which you bartered 
your girlhood glittering in your hair, only a vain, worthless 
puppet of society. 

We have met William Rutherford. Elise looked paler 
and sadder. He was unconscious of the occurrence of aught 
which could embarrass him. When he seeks us he is no 
longer repulsed by my coldness. From the task which had 
engrossed his entire attention he was aroused to a conscious- 
ness of Elise's state for the first time on the day of which I 
have written you. 

It was of her childhood that Elise had spoken. Once 
again she had fancied herself a child in her father's house, 
with the forbidden companion of her youth. Aware of her 
mother's fate, the truth had flashed over young Rutherford. 
He would have disclosed his knowledge to me at once, but, 
from my avoidance of him, supposed me to be aware of the 
truth, and averse to speaking of it with him, a comparative 
stranger. 

How long we shall remain here I cannot decide. I am 
weary of this life, and long to return to our home ; but it 
will be in all things as Elise wills. I cannot consult her 
wishes now too assiduously. I have a great deal to do to 
retrieve the past. 

It will not be long before you again hear from me. Pray 
Heaven that Elise may be even better than she now is, — 
that a paleness so deathly may not chase at intervals the 
color from her cheek. Ralph. 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 187 

TO EDA HERBERT. 

Heath Hall, May. 

We are at home again ; but, ah ! Eda, there is a voice 
which whispers to me, and will not be silenced, that there 
will be ere long another journey, — that Elise will be the 
traveller, and that I must remain behind ! But she will not 
go alone. Angels will lead the way ; the spirit, perchance, 
of our lost boy, will be sent to lead his mother homeward. 
O, Eda, how can I write you this ? — how trace words more 
terrible to me than my own death-warrant could be ? 

The first violets were blooming on our little one's grave 
when we returned. It was Elise's desire to go, but she has 
now scarce strength to walk in the soft, warm spring morn- 
ing to the little mound of earth, not far off, in the shadow of 
a young tree. She never goes there now, though the flowers 
have sprung in beauty thereon, and the violets have faded 
in the shade ; though a soft, velvet-like carpet is spread by 
nature, all the way, for her footsteps. But these fall heav- 
ily, Eda, and waver ; she must rest on my strong arm now, 
and pillow her head on my broad chest. 

All night she lies awake, to fall into a troubled sleep at 
dawn. But no longer is she sad, or filled with a secret 
grief. She talks with me ever of the beautiful hours when 
last in May-time we walked in the garden and woodland 
together. But never in words does she allude to the night 
which is coming fast to me with the sunset of her life, though 
there are times when she looks at me with a longing, pitying 
tenderness, as though she would fain strengthen me for the 
coming struggle. But not yet is she strong enough ; it will 
come by and by, that strength which is always given the 
dying. I foresee it all ; she will speak with me in her own 
gentle way, and compel me to submission. I shall no longer 
be suffered to rebel thus wildly against this bitterest decree. 

Only yesterday the words trembled on her lip and died 
away in a sigh, when I murmured so passionately to Dr. 



188 HEATH hall; or, 

Francis, "I will take her away, far away — she shall not 
stay here to grow ever paler ! " and he looked on me in pity 
— on Elise in tenderness and fear. But she cannot go ; she 
must stay here and die ! 0, Eda ! God cannot, shall not 
thus desolate me ! She must stay — stay to purify me. 

Ealph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

June. 

Summer has dawned, with its burden of roses, its wealth 
of beauty, and all day long the birds sing in the woods close 
at hand. Nature has revived all her flowers but Elise ; she 
droops evermore, Eda ; fainter and fainter blooms the rose on 
her cheek. She now speaks of her pilgrimage on earth as 
well-nigh over. She is strong to counsel me now. The time 
of which I wrote you has come ; the love of her Creator rises 
supreme over that of earth. All along she has desired that 
she might live until summer came. And it is here ; she is 
ready — she is waiting. 

In the solemn silence of the night she watches the coming 
of the angel of death. Again and again she fancies she has 
heard a strain of music winding through the woodland and 
floating down the distant hills. The last time it was close at 
hand, and when it ceased she felt a touch as though a form 
brushed past her; and she awoke me from the slumber 
into which I had fallen. There was no human being present, 
but Elise lay smiling on her pillow, her eyes turned towards 
the moonlit casement. " Do you see him, Ralph ? " she 
whispered, softly. "He is standing in the moonlight, my 
beautiful boy ! But he looks not as of old ; he smiles ten- 
derly on his mother's fear — he is calling me home. Fear 
not, Ralph, to trust to the angel's care." 

I answered not. I saw, with my material eyes, but the 
moonbeams, I heard but the breeze sighing in the first dawn 
of early day ; but Elise believes that the vision will draw 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 189 

ever nearer, until God's messenger from the spirit-land leads 
her silently away. 

A little while ago, and when the dog howled at night on 
the door-stone she shuddered and grew faint with a nameless 
fear. But now she knows no fear ; there is only a smile on 
her' lip, which softens day by day. I dare not leave her; 
I cannot sleep, lest I awake to find her forever departed. 

0, Eda ! I dread lest when the hour comes a mortal weak- 
ness oppress her, that the way to her will seem less bright, 
darker than it does now. My soul grows faint with grief, 
and I would be strong to support, to cheer. No tears must 
fall ; only smiles, and parting words of love. 

Ralph. 



TO EDA HERBERT. 

Heath Hall, June. 

Gone, Eda ! Alone, Father ! The eyelids are closed 
in their last, their eternal repose, upon the cheek which glows 
not with the faintest pulse of life. Not a nerve thrills, not 
a shade steals over the pale form, though the lips of passion 
have again and again pressed thereon with words of burning 
love. 

The wind breathing amid the trees swept in music up the 
hill-side, and all alone, in the solemn silence of the night, I 
gazed upon her, bathed in the glory of the moonlight, and 
marked the same smile that illumined her face in our bridal 
hour. And then, Eda, I felt as though a spirit floated past 
me out into the viewless air. 

"Good-by, dear EalphI" she whispered faintly, and the 
white lips no longer moved ; but still I heard her tones float- 
ing about me, until they grew fainter and fainter in the 
distance. 

" Elise ! " I murmur ; and Elise is the long, lingering cry 
which trembles, on the hush of midnight, to the ear of the 



190 HEATH hall; ORj 

Creator, in whose presence blooms the flower over whose 
beauty breathed the frost of jealousy. 

I, Eda, dared to deem myself more than air, sunshine, all 
that was requisite for Elise's well-being ; but when life's first 
tangible sorrow fell upon her, I stood far off, cold, austere, in 
the arrogance of my fancied superiority over her, the frail 
child. God of Heaven ! forgive the atheism of the thought 
which dared to doubt the angel which thou sent on earth to 
minister to me, the egotistical one, with the curse of blind 
ingratitude now weighing heavily upon him ! 

Eda, there was a long, stormy night, and yet in the heav- 
ens there was no cloud. The moon smiled mockingly, all 
night long, through the folded curtains of the drawing-room, 
upon the marble statue of death, which they had draped in 
white, and placed upon a couch therein, and strewn with wild 
roses. 

Eda, I was no longer human. I, lost soul, grew brute in 
my despair, cursing destiny, and desecrating the presence of 
the dead by my rebellion. But those murmured curses 
rolled back upon the spirit which had conceived them ; for a 
chance moonbeam played over the cold, white lips with a holy 
smile frozen thereon. Then my defiant soul grew still ; no 
sound broke the silence, until with the morning's dawn I 
wept — ay, wept and prayed, while with the deepening light 
there grew upon those pallid lips a beauty beyond that of 
earth ; and, with a strange hush at my heart, I entered the 
octagon room, with its warmth and sunshine, folded the rose- 
hued curtains over the windows, placed yet another soft 
cushion upon the couch where in life the dear head had 
rested ; and then, Eda, I went back to the gloomy drawing- 
room, and lifted her tenderly in my arms, for I could not 
bear to see her there. Tony was in the hall; he looked 
shocked, and gazed in terror at the burden which I bore ; but 
I passed on, and laid her to rest upon the soft couch. From 
the conservatory I brought a handful of those crimson roses 



A PACKAGE OF LETTERS. 191 

which in life she had loved so well ; and I laid them upon 
her bosom, and in her golden hair. 

All day, seated by that low couch, I gazed upon her with 
a silent, passionless sadness ; for she no longer had that ter- 
rible death look, but, seemingly pale and weary, slept placidly. 
Then I could fancy her at rest, no longer shivering beneath 
life's cold blasts ; and, with the passing of all self from my 
thoughts, I became grateful that the bud which had opened 
from the parent stem had been also gathered, 

Eda, I can write to you how I watched day and night by 
Elise's side ; but not of the hour when the beautiful form 
which had lain in my bosom was resigned to the dark, still 
tomb, and the semblance of life with which I had cheated 
myself was over. 

The hour I gave her up, the bird, which had poured its song 
fainter each day, beat its wing for the last time against the 
golden bars of its prison, and died. Still its cage hangs in 
the recess of the window, but no note of music steals out 
with the sunbeams ; still a couch stands close at hand, with a 
woman's crimson mantle thrown thereon, but no white hand 
plays amid its folds. Bays, weeks, have gone by since the 
occupant of that room joined the tenantry of heaven ; and the 
only sound which breaks upon its silence is the murmur of a 
sobbing prayer when I am there alone, alone with the memory 
of the past. 

There are white hairs amid my locks, Eda ; I am bowed 
as though with age ; deep furrows are graven on my brow. 

I am looking forward not to death ; for, ! there is a con- 
quest of selfish grief and passion to be achieved before I may 
do so. To life's field of battle I have been marching onward 
with the arrogance of a leader of a bannered host, but who 
now feels his ranks thinned, his glory shorn, though he 
still bows not to his conqueror's will. Fate has been my 
opponent. The Almighty is my conqueror. He has smitten 
me, Eda, in the pride of my self-reliance. He has taught 



192 HEATH hall; or, a package of letters. 

me to recognize, in spirit as in life, his omnipotence. He 
will accept no false allegiance, no half submission. The burn- 
ing desire to drown grief in the delirium of worldly ambition, 
which sweeps, in my desolation, over me, must be allayed. I 
must be purified to meet Elise ; and, above all else, I have in 
the end a sterner lesson than all others to learn. From my 
heart I must put away the earthly desire for her sake to be 
admitted to the home of the blest. Child-like reverence and 
adoration of Him, with passive submission to his will, must 
take her place in my thoughts. 

I am very weak. Without His aid I cannot do this. I 
shall falter and faint over my task. Then, Eda ! pray for 
me in thy far-ofif home, — for him whose heart is withered, 
whose life is cold, whose flowers of affection are blighted. 

For the brother of thy youth, darling Eda ! growing fast 
into the lone and desolate old man, send forth thy spirit, so 
high and pure, in earnest petition to our Father's ear. He 
hearkens even to me, the erring, the late idolatrous. He 
surely will to thee, the pure and meek in heart I 

Ralph. 



ONE I MET. 



Those flashing eyes of angry light, 
Alas ! they read not mine aright. 
0, erring sister, young and fair, 
But tender pity met thee there ! 

I thought, as through the tented screen 
The golden sunlight's drifting sheen 
Fell o'er her like a holy thrall, 
Of the great love enfolding all. 

She only knew of mocking scorn 

That on her brow pressed down the thorn ; 

She only felt her presence made 

In the clear light a darkening shade. 

But I retraced the buried hours, 
To bind that brow with summer flowers ; 
And, looking back through years of sin. 
Saw her a guileless child again. 

I thought of tender hands once lain 
Upon that brow to soothe its pain ; 
Close nestled to a mother's breast, 
When life was love, and love was blessed. 

I saw from her those pure hands fall. 
Chilled by the touch that reaeheth all ; 
17 



194 ONE I MET. 



The rest is hidden from my thought, 
I only know what has been wrought. 

I only know man's passion lays 
Darkly on life's unguarded ways ; 
And when the simoon sweeps the sod, 
Earth offers not her flowers to God. 



THE SIGNET-RING; 

OR, FKANCOISE DE FOIX. 
A TALE OP THE COURT OF FRANCIS THE FIRST 

** Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 

And patient smiles to 'vvear through suffering's hour ; 
And sunless riches, from affection's deep. 

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower>i 
And to make idols, and to find them clay. 
And to bewail that worship — therefore, pray ! " 

Mrs. Hemans. 

It was sunset, — a delicious sunset in sunny France. A 
flood of golden light was falling over the fine old chateau of 
Chambord, the favorite residence of Francis the First, the 
young and chivalrous monarch of France ; while the evening 
breeze murmured softly in the far-stretching forest near at 
hand, whose recesses had echoed, many hours during the day, 
to gay laughter and musical voices, as the royal court swept 
onward beneath its shade. 

Just as a dusty carriage rolled to the entrance of the 
chateau, one of a group of gayly-dressed cavaliers, who stood 
conversing together, took a step forward as the heavy vehicle 
went slowly by, raising his plumed cap reverently towards a 
casement, where, half-hidden by the silken curtain, stood the 
king, with his dark, falcon-like eyes flashing joyously, and a 
faint, mocking smile upon his lip, as he waved his hand slightly 
to the salutation of M. de Guise. 

" Now, on my honor, gentlemen, we would but perform a 
duty worthy of a gallant knight, were we to challenge M. de 



196 THE signet-ring; or, 

Chautebriand for his cold reception of this paragon of loveli- 
ness, who has brought her bright eyes hither to light our 
sovereign's court ! " and the Admiral de Bonnivet, as he 
spoke, directed his companion's attention to a gentleman, who, 
with cheeks deadly pale, and brow dark as midnight, advanced 
to the assistance of a lady who sprang eagerly from a car- 
riage. 

" Calm yourself, madam ; the eyes of the dissolute court of 
Francis are upon you," said this man; and the Count de 
Chautebriand, as he spoke, drew the hand of his young wife 
within his arm, hurrying her past the inquisitive glances 
turned towards her. 

But more than one gay nobleman caught a glimpse of a 
sweet young face, with large, lustrous eyes of blue, cheeks 
glowing with joy and emotion, and a form of rare grace and 
beauty, slight and girlish as it was. 

Ere the hour passed, more than one of the court beauties, 
as they robed themselves for the saloons of royalty, learned 
that the loveliest woman in France, the beautiful Francoise 
de Foix, still in her early girlhood, had arrived. 

" Is it thus, thus, Jean, that you welcome me ? "asked the 
young wife, with tearful eyes, as her husband led her to her 
apartments. 

" Could you anticipate other than a cold greeting, madam, 
from one whom you have thus boldly disobeyed ? Recollect 
yourself, and cease to upbraid one whom you have rendered 
more miserable than he ever dreamed of becoming." 

" I disobedient ! I make you miserable ! I, your fond, 
devoted wife, Jean ! Ah ! but you are jesting, dear Jean I 
you seek but to try me. Say, is it not so ? " And, as she 
spoke, she would have wound her arms about him. 

But he drew back with cold hauteur and freezing disdain, 
and with the same bitter smile addressed her. "Would 
you add mockery, madam, to disobedience ? " Then, suddenly 



FRANCOISE DE TOIX. 197 

changing his tones to those of passionate grief and tenderness, 
he continued, 

"0, Francoise, God pardon you for the bright illusion you 
have dispelled ! Until now man never trusted human creature 
so wholly as I have trusted you, child that you are ! When I 
left you in Brittany, blessing God that he had given me a 
love so pure, how blind was I then ! — then I believed you 
true and brave ; now I find you weak and cold." 

" Weak and cold, Jean ! " and the wife raised herself al- 
most haughtily erect as she spoke, dashing aside her gathering 
tears. " Was it weakness to love you only as woman might 
love a husband, knowing him to be worthy of that love — love 
you so devotedly that even in parting I could smile amid 
bitter tears, knowing it to be your will ? Call you that im- 
plicit obedience coldness ? — weakness in me, I ask, to hasten 
to your side when you were so thoughtful as to desire my 
presence ? Would it have been more in compliance with your 
wishes, had I lingered by my child's side in preference to 
hastening to you ? ! Jean, Jean ! how cruelly you mis- 
judge me ! " 

" Recollect, madam, that I expressly forbade your presence 
at this court, — that I besought you to disregard even my own 
command to leave Brittany, unless enforced by the signet- 
ring, the fellow of that with which I encircled your finger when 
we parted." 

" And how else have I conducted ? Weary and sick at 
heart as I was from your prolonged absence, longing to be 
once more by your side, staid I not patiently at home until 
the fellow of this ring, which encircles my finger, never in life 
to leave it, Jean, came to me?" And, as she spoke, she 
withdrew her -glove, holding up one slender finger, with a ring 
of curiously-wrought gold thereon. 

But he shrunk back as though death was in its touch. 
" Add not falsehood, Francoise, to your other faults ! " he 
said. " They may be pardoned ; not that ! not that ! " 
17^ 



198 THE signet-ring; OB, 

" Hush, Jean, hush ! " and once more she sprang to his 
side, and laid her hand upon his lips, as if she would fain 
silence the voice which she might not listen to accusing her 
of treachery, and love it when it had ceased. " Not false- 
hood, Jean, you shall not believe it of me ! " 

But he turned aside, and, opening a casket, took from 
thence a signet-ring, and, with his dark eyes bent full upon 
her, held it up to view. 

" Jean, Jean ! believe it not ! " gasped the horror-stricken 
girl. 

But he drew himself sternly up as he spoke. " You will 
cease, madam, to annoy me with your protestations of inno- 
cence. Henceforth you have a part to play ; not that of the 
beloved and honored wife of an idolizing husband, but that 
of the countess of a French nobleman, belonging to an ancient 
and an honorable family. Be faithful, madam, I warn you, to 
your honor and mine. My eye will be upon you, no longer to 
guide and support, but to mark your conduct. Tears are 
henceforth unavailing ; you have chosen your fate. You will 
now robe yourself with all haste ; for the sooner you are pre- 
sented, the better. The entire court is now doubtless ringing 
with the news of your arrival. Your dressing-room and 
chamber is beyond this. The shrine, I doubt not, will prove 
worthy of its mistress," And, turning on his heel, he left the 
apartment, not deigning to bestow another glance upon the 
graceful form sinking to the floor, faint with agony and 
despair. 

But when the door closed, he leaned heavily against the 
wall for support, dashing aside a bursting tear ; the next 
moment raised himself erect, and, with slow and stately step, 
passed onward, the slight pallor of his cheek alone betraying 
the conflict within his breast. 

The first great grief of life is harder to bear than all others. 
Yv'e grow strong in sufi'ering ; the heavily-tried heart either 
hardens or breaks. Only in sudden, unlooked for happiness 



FKAjSCOISE de foix. 199 

will the ice which has gathered about the heart in life's long 
hours of anguish give way to the wild beatings of unantici- 
pated joy. 

Thus it was with Francoise de Foix, whose bright path in 
life became suddenly darkened by gathering clouds — clouds 
so dense that even the bright star of hope failed to penetrate 
their gloom. She neither moaned nor wept ; words and tears 
came not at her bidding. Faint and silent she knelt where 
her husband had left her, with her head drooping low on her 
bosom, while the shadows of the coming night filled the 
lofty chamber with gloom. Cold words had made the young 
heart gloomier than the most palpable shadows of evening. 

All at once there came a burst of music stealing along 
the corridors, reaching even the ear of the sad occupant of that 
silent chamber. 

With the first note she lifted her clasped hands to her 
ears, as if she would fain shut out those sounds of revelry and 
joy; but even through the slender fingers poured a richer 
strain, and with it the recollection of her husband's words ; 
and she arose, with eager haste, to do his bidding. 

As she opened the door of the dressing-room, which he had 
pointed out before he left her, she drew back, shading her 
eyes from the dazzling light which streamed from the wax 
tapers burning in the silver sconces on either side of the tall 
mirror in its carved frame. It was a scene of exquisite 
taste, and more than regal luxury ; but Francoise de Foix 
noted not the glowing carpet, the luxurious couches, or the 
gorgeously-draped walls. 

A girl knelt upon the carpet before the dressing-table, her 
fingers busied with a pile of glittering jewels, gleaming amid 
folds of glistening satin. She arose as Madame de Chaute- 
briand came forward, courtesying reverently, with an expres- 
sion of profound admiration, as she looked upon the face 
before her, so lovely and so sad. 

" Perhaps madam is unaware," said the girl, as the lady's 



200 THE signet-ring; or, 

glance rested questioningly upon her, "that the king has 
graciously appointed me to the honor of attending upon her." 
And Francoise seated herself before the mirror with a look of 
mournful submission, feeling that there was no alternative for 
her but obedience. 

Just then the door opened, and her own attendant, a young 
girl whom she had brought with her from Brittany, entered. 
"Ah, dear lady, not yet robed, and M. de Chautebriand 
awaiting you ? He will be here very, very soon." 

As she spoke, Francoise de Foix's cheek grew warm, and 
her lips quivered as she murmured, " He is coming for me 
then, dear, dear Jean ! Pray hasten ; he must not wait for 
me." 

But even their swift fingers were too slow; she herself 
gathered up the whole mass of golden curls, and wound them 
carelessly yet gracefully together, thrusting a heavy comb of 
gold, crusted over with glittering jewels, amid them. Then, 
with trembling fingers, she folded the snowy satin robe, with 
its costly drapery of delicate lace, about her graceful form, 
while the youngest maid clasped a necklace of heavy pearls 
about the white throat of her agitated mistress. 

" Hark ! it is his step ; " and, as she spoke, she advanced to 
meet her husband. With the light falling full upon her, her 
cheek glowing with excitement, her full blue eyes glistening 
with emotion, she stood radiant in beauty before him. But 
no smile lighted up the haughty lineaments of Jean de Chau- 
tebriand. 

For an instant she met his look with a fond, asking gaze ; 
then, drawing her arm within his own, he led her silently and 
coldly forth. 

" 0, Jean, Jean ! smile, smile once upon me, or I cannot 
bear this ! " murmured the embarrassed woman, clinging to 
her husband's side as he led her up the saloon, while a mur- 
mur of admiration, unchecked even by the royal presence, ran 
round, as all eyes were bent upon them. But even as she 



J 



i'RANCOISE DE FOIX. 201 

besought Hm the group clustered around the spot where the 
monarch stood gave way, and " Madame de Chautebriand, 
sire," fell upon her ear, in the clear, deep tones of her hus- 
band's voice, as he withdrew her arm, drawing a step back 
from her side. The beautiful cheek crimsoned as the young 
countess raised her drooping eyes, and sank gracefully upon 
her knee before the monarch. 

" Rise, fair Countess of Chautebriand," he said, in a sweet 
and musical voice ; and he bent forward, raising her instantly, 
while Francoise felt the jewelled hand of the king grow warm 
about her own, as he continued, " We had thought to chide 
one who lingered so long away, giving her presence at last so 
reluctantly to our court ; but our lips are mute, — we have 
no voice to chide one so lovely. Therefore permit me, sweet 
lady, to welcome you to Chambord, and entreat of you in its 
gayeties to cease to pine for Brittany. M. de Chautebriand, 
my thanks are due you for your kindness in bringing so fair 
a flower hither. Accept the gratitude of your sovereign." 
And Francis bowed, as he spoke, to the stately nobleman before 
him ; but, for all that, more than one who looked noted a faint, 
mocking smile on his lip, and the haughty salutation of M. de 
Chautebriand. 

Francoise de Foix only knew that the sweetest voice that 
ever thrilled the heart of woman was ringing, with all its 
music, within her ear ; that a monarch's eyes, full and large, 
and filled with a world of passionate admiration, were bent 
upon her burning cheeks, as, still clinging to the side of her 
haughty husband, she withdrew from the royal (?Ircle ; and 
wherever she moved, throughout the evening, that glance fol- 
lowed her, as she listened, for the first time, with flushing 
cheeks and drooping eyes, to the whispered compliments of 
the gay courtiers as they crowded around her. 

The evening was wearing away, when the Count de Chaute- 
briand approached the circle of the queen, by whose side he 
had left his young wife ; and for the first time that night hia 



202 THE SIGNET-RING ; OR, 

cheek lost its strange pallor, his brow its gloom, when his 
glance rested upon her. 

The unwonted glow had left the delicate cheek ; no longer 
the heavily-fringed lids drooped. The large eyes had lost 
their feverish light, and were soft and dewy with emotion. 
No longer the delicate lace shading the white bosom was 
stirred by the tumultuous beatings of an agitated heart, as 
she stood by the side of her royal mistress, the light and 
snowy folds of her dress contrasting with the crimson drapery 
and gorgeous robes of the queen. 

With a sunny smile upon her lip she spoke, while every 
accent was full of the unutterable affection of the young 
mother's heart. 

With her soft voice and encouraging smile the queen had 
won the child-like creature by her side to speak with an inno- 
cent freedom and artlessness rarely known in those luxurious 
saloons. She was speaking of her child. What wonder, then, 
that, as the thoughts of the child-mother wandered from that 
scene of regal pomp and luxury to the quiet chamber of her 
infant, she ceased to listen to the swelling music, to look upon 
the fluttering crowd? 

With that memory, over her whole countenance there came 
an expression of such exquisite tenderness and beauty, a smile 
so faint and indescribably sweet, that the face of Francoise de 
Foix became almost radiant. 

The pale, dove-eyed queen sighed involuntarily, and glanced 
uneasily towards the king. 

Another had marked that smile ; a graceful woman, still in 
early womanhood, with the same large, deep-set eyes and aris- 
tocratic features with the monarch. 

" Does your majesty note that smile ? " asked the low voice 
of Marguerite of Valois. 

" Ah ! ma mignon," answered the king, " not but to covet 
it in its beauty." 

" Is it wise, will it not be cruel, to initiate her into tho 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 203 

miseries of a court life ? Can you not spare this one, 
Francis ? " 

Something of sadness mingled in the voice of his beautiful 
and idolized sister, and he looked inquiringly to the agitated 
woman before him, usually so ready to sacrifice the happiness 
of every human heart to his caprice. 

" Marguerite, what moves you thus ? " and the king forgot 
even Francoise, in the agitation of the young duchess. 

" Nothing, Francis, nothing ! Look," she said, only too 
glad of a pretext for withdrawing his attention from herself, 
directing his glance to the once more haughty bearing and 
frowning brow of the Count de Chautebriand, and the paling 
cheek of Francoise de Foix, as, bending low, the Admiral de 
Bonnivet saluted her. 

" Ah, on my honor, he is chary of his sweet captive," mur- 
mured the monarch, noting the evident chagrin of the husband 
as that nobleman, with a glance that only too evidently ex- 
pressed his admiration, looked upon the timid young creature 
before him. The next moment, and Francis himself joined 
them. 

" The night is wearing," he said ; " already the roses pale 
upon thy cheeks, fair lady. Therefore, although grieving to 
lose your presence, we give you permission to retire ; for you 
must be weary from long travel and fatigue, we would fain 
deem encountered for our sake, even though we know it to 
have been reluctantly. Is it not so ? " asked the monarch, 
with a faint smile. 

" Nay, sire," commenced Francoise, looking up ; but, as 
she met the dark eyes bent upon her, she blushed and hes- 
itated. 

"You do Madame de Chautebriand injustice, sire," an- 
swered the husband, with a bitter smile. "I myself can bear 
witness for her that she came not reluctantly or unwillingly." 

" Ah ! was it indeed thus ? Then our gratitude is bound- 
less." And the monarch's most winning smile beamed upon 



204 THE signet-ring; or, 

her, as he lifted the white fingers of the countess to his lips, 
and turned away. They had been standing in the deep recess 
of a tall window, and no eyes noted the monarch's courtesy 
but those beside him. Francis himself beheld not the fiery 
glance which the haughty nobleman turned upon him. 



" Unwind these jewels, Adele ; they press heavily upon my 
brow, and it is aching, aching fearfully with all this light and 
fatigue ! " and, as she spoke, Francoise de Foix sank wearily 
upon a low seat before the dressing-table. A terrible weight 
was pressing upon her heart, crushing all the bright hopes and 
love-dreams of her young life ; but the girl, as she unwound 
that shining hair, marked her shiver, and press her hand to her 
brow, as if she would fain recall what had passed. 

" Give me my mantle, Adele, and then leave me. I am 
very weary, too weary to sleep ; I would rest here a while." 
And, throwing a velvet mantle over the long, floating night- 
robe of the lady, they left her. 

Still at intervals a note of music found its way into that 
luxurious dressing-room ; but it moved not her who sat with 
her head bowed upon the low dressing-table before her, her 
white fingers straying amid the golden curls loosened from 
their confinement. After a long time, a distant footstep 
echoed through the corridor, and she sprang up with flushing 
cheeks ; but the step passed on. Then her lip quivered, and 
she threw herself once more back into the chair ; while a 
shower of tears fell through the clasped fingers, and rained 
upon the jewels strewn upon the dressing-table. 

For a while she wept ; then she dried her tears, and, raising 
her head, looked on the pale face and tear-stained features 
which the mirror threw back. But, as she gazed, there came 
a faint color ; scarcely perceptible it was at first, but it deep- 
ened gradually to a crimson glow ; the blue eyes flashed, the 
coral lips wreathed themselves into a haughty smile, while 
the mantle fell far back with the heaving of the white bosom, 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 205 

and she paused not now to listen with smiling lip for his foot- 
steps, but to gaze on the image mirrored in beauty before her. 
The serpent uncoiled itself in its glittering beauty, winding its 
coils fast about the heart chilled and thrown back upon itself. 
The jewelled hands clasped convulsively the snowy folds of her 
robe, her eyes beamed with defiant pride, as she murmured, 
" Scorned by thee ! " Was it an angel voice that whispered, 
" father of thy child ! " and hushed the defiant word upon her 
lip, causing her to shudder and turn away ? Was it a holy 
memory that fell like dew upon the burning heart, quenching 
the fiery glow upon the cheek, dimming the mother's eyes 
with tears ? 

" Anne," came slowly and remorsefully from her quivering 
lip ; and, throwing aside the rich mantle, her white robe 
floating about her, she passed onward to the chamber beyond. 
It was flooded with the silver light of the moon ; — and when 
the closing door hid the light and the perfume of the dressing- 
room, the young countess knelt meekly beside the lofty couch 
with its snowy draperies, and, burying her face in her hands, 
prayed humbly for strength and pardon. 

Through the closely-shrouded casements there stole a golden 
beam, shedding a faint, tremulous light throughout the sleep- 
ing chamber of Francoise de Foix. It had none of the gor- 
geous magnificence of the dressing-chamber: but the snowy 
silk of the curtains floating about the tall bed and lofty case- 
ments, with their sweeping silver fringes ; the soft carpet of a 
delicate cream-color, with bunches of white lilies and crimson 
roses ; the cushions of velvet, white as new-fallen snow, with 
bouquets of bright blossoms wrought with rare skill thereon, 
all were in exquisite accordance with the beauty of the lovely 
dreamer, who lay with her head pillowed upon one slender 
arm, the long golden hair escaping from the delicate lace of 
her night-coif, and half veiling her face. 

That she had passed a restless night was apparent from the 
silken counterpane flilling'in white, billowy folds about her, 
18 



206 



THE SIGNET RING ', OR, 



while one hand, all the fairer from the contrast of the heavy 
ring thereon, grasped, with a convulsive effort, the costly lace 
which fringed the pillow. 

" Jean, Jean ! " she murmured, softly, then passionately, 
while two or three heavy tears stole through the drooping 
lashes, and she clasped the drapery yet tighter within her 
hand. But even as she wept, a smile stole over the lovely 
features ; then a blush, which dried the falling tears, so deep 
and warm its hue ; and she turned restlessly upon her pillow, 
murmuring, half-aloud, " The king ! " 

Was the monarch's glance haunting her even then ? — the 
music of a monarch's voice lingering yet upon her ear, that 
she murmured " Sire," yet once again ? 

Just then the door of the dressing-room opened, and the 
young court attendant, provided by the king, entered, and, 
with a smile on her lip, placed a bouquet of rare flowers in a 
marble vase by the sleeper's couch. Then, gathering back the 
curtains, she bent down and caught the name just audible on 
her lip ; and now her smile had yet a deeper meaning, as she 
departed noiselessly as she had entered. 

Scarcely had the door closed behind her, when, stealing 
through the shrouded casement, there arose from below a 
burst of music, swelling rich and full on the morning air. 

With the first note, the sleeper raised herself from her pil- 
low, and, brushing back the curtains, looked dreamily around j 
but, as the music died, there arose the murmur of gay voices, 
then a loud, joyous laugh ; and Francoise smiled an answering 
smile, and, folding her dressing-robe about her, crossed to the 
window, and withdrew a fold of the curtain. 

The whole court-yard beneath her casement was alive with 
courtiers and gayly-dressed grooms. But the countess' glance 
rested only upon the terrace directly before her, upon which 
stood the king, with a group of gentlemen surrounding him. 

The symmetry of his tall figure was displayed by the dark 
hunting-dress which he wore ; the long white plume in his 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 2^7 

cap floated back from the broad, high brow, beneath which 
gleamed eyes now soft and lustrous as woman's, and now flash- 
ing imperiously on all around him. Just back of him stood 
the Count de Chautebriand, his pale cheek and sombre coun- 
tenance contrasting only too plainly with the courtly bearing 
of his joyous sovereign ; and Francoise murmured, sorrowfully, 
" Jean I " 

Just then the king turned toward the silent nobleman, and 
addressed him, with a courteous manner and pleasant smile. 
Involuntarily they both raised their glance to the casement 
above, and there stood the young countess herself regarding 
them. 

Instantly the plumed cap of Francis swept the ground, and 
a warm, glowing smile illuminated his features. With a hur- 
ried, tremulous acknowledgment of the salutation, the lady 
dropped the curtain between them, but not until she had per- 
ceived the king's smile, and the cold, bitter glance of her hus- 
band. With a deep sigh, she turned away ; but her cheek no 
longer flushed, nor her eye dimmed ; she was learning to feel 
and subdue her anguish, — for a sensitive heart like hers a 
bitter and a dangerous lesson. 

" Your cheek is even paler than it was last night, sweet 
lady. I fear me our court air will rob you of your bloom," 
said her attendant, as she arranged the last fold of her mis- 
tress' riding-habit, and looked upon the beautiful face gleam- 
ing out from beneath the eable plume of the velvet cap of the 
same dark hue. " Are you ill, sweet lady ? " 

There was a gentle concern irresistibly winning in the 
girl's manner, and already the lady began to take a deep 
interest and pleasure in her new attendant. She did not 
attempt to hide the tears that were gathering in her eyes. 
Vain, futile, had the efibrt been ; for they had followed 
each other in rapid succession, until, at last, unable to conquer 
her grief, the unhappy one bowed her face in her hands, weep- 
ing bitterly. 



208 THE SIGNET-RINa; OR, 

Through the casement there came the murmur of gay voices, 
the pealing music and the neighing of horses, as the royal 
train gathered in the court for the morning chase, and over 
all rested the glad, warm sunlight ; and there, with joy and 
light surrounding her, stood the young wife in her almost pas- 
sionate grief. 

For many moments Ninette gazed, sorrowfully, upon her ; 
then she entered the chamber beyond, and in a moment re- 
appeared with the flowers which she had placed there. 

" I do not think, lady, that you have yet beheld them," she 
said, softly, placing them in her hand. 

They were rare and fragrant flowers, and as their breath 
floated upwards Ninette whispered, " He sent them to you, 
lady, by me." And Francoise brushed away her falling tears, 
pressing them eagerly to her lips. With a brightening glance 
she held them there, inhaling their perfume ; but the tumult 
beneath her windows increased as the train formed about the 
monarch, and, hastily snatching one white, dewy bud from the 
rest, she thrust it into the belt of her dress, and left her 
apartment. 

Far and wide the forest of Bouglue echoed to the excite- 
ment of the chase. As one by one each gay rider rode 
onward, a solitary loiterer lingered on the way, reining in 
her spirited horse beneath the shadow of a forest tree. Weary 
and wretched, Francoise de Foix paused to wipe away a 
starting tear, the white blossom drooping in her belt. 

" We should blush for the chivalry of our court, were we 
not only too grateful for that neglect by which we ourself 
may profit," fell upon her ear, in the sweet, low tones of 
Francis the First ; and, with a warm blush, Francoise de Foix 
raised her eyes to the king. 

" What ! weeping, fair lady ? — weeping at Chambord ? 
Are you already pining for Brittany ? Methinks my Lord 
de Chautebriand forgets himself when he leaves one so beau- 
tiful thus sorrowing and alone. We will ride up and chide 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 209 

him," he said, gayly, but with his glance bent steadily upon 
her. 

" Nay, sire ; with your permission, I will not intrude," she 
answered, proudly. " I pray your pardon, sire, but I would 
fain rest here a while in the shade." 

" Ah ! you have ridden far, dea« lady, to-day, and boldly 
as^the best of us. I, too, am weary of the sunlight and the 
chase. On my knighthood, fair Countess of Chautebriand," 
and the monarch bent low in his saddle as his glance rested 
upon the drooping flowers in her belt, — " on my knighthood, 
fair countess," and he bent down until the plume within his 
cap mingled with the mane of her horse, as with his lips he 
touched the little hand which held the bridle, " any prince in ' 
Christendom may envy Francis of France. I had scarce 
dared to hope, fair lady, that you would thus grace this frail 
token of my regard ; " and he pointed to the flower which she 
wore. 

" Thine, sire, — thine?" and, with trembling fingers, she 
drew it forth. " I beseech your pardon, my liege; I thought 
— I fancied that " 

" Another sent it, you would say, madam," said the king , 
and Francoise bowed her head in assent. There was a slight 
tinge of bitterness mingling with the mocking tones of tlie 
king's voice, as he continued, " You deemed it a love-token 
from the recreant Count of Chautebriand, and, forgetting his 
unkindness, you have cherished this poor flower, but that its 
leaves may strew the gi'ound when you learn that the hand of 
Francis gathered it for love of your bright eyes." And he 
pointed to the white leaves fallen upon the green turf. 

When he first spoke, the lady had raised herself haughtily 
erect, gathering up the bridle, as though, all monarch as he 
was, she would fain leave his side who blended the term recre- 
ant with Chautebriand's name ; but when he spoke of cold- 
ness, her hand dropped the bridle, the fair head sank upon 
18* 



210 THE SIGNET-KING ; OR, 

the heaving bosom, and, as he ceased, a tear fell glittering 
upon his hand, as it rested upon her bridle. 

Memory was busy with unkindness. Low, scornful words 
still lingered on her ear. What wonder, when the warm 
heart grew cold, — when the young spirit yearned, in its des- 
olation, for human sympathy and love, — that it thrilled to the 
music of a low voice, whispering, " Grieve not, my dear lady, 
grieve not ; " that, for one wild, delirious moment, the sun- 
shine of that smile veiled the cold, dark shadows gathering 
about her ; that the beautiful, the worshipped, but fearfully 
lonely one turned, with an answering smile, to the graceful 
man by her side ! And eloquent was the glance of love and 
admiration which met her own. 

The sunlight wavered on the green turf, as it stole through 
the leafy canopy above ; the distant music mingled with the 
gay song of the birds ; but over all there fell a dim cloud. 
Darkness was closing around her ; the slight figure wavered 
in the saddle, and Francoise de Foix would have fallen upon 
the outstretched arm of the king ; but suddenly, soft and 
clear, above the music, floated the plaintive cry of a wild bird, 
and she raised herself erect with new-born strength, shook 
the bridle free from the hand which held it, and bounded reck- 
lessly and wildly away. 

What roused the woman's spirit, piercing even the deafness 
of the fainting ear ? It was the same low carol which had 
floated through the chamber sacred to maternal love when the 
young mother soothed her child to sleep with her sweet mock- 
ery of the woodland bird. 

For more than a moment the king's glance rested upon the 
slight form speeding so wildly forward. Then a smile, very 
faint, but full of exultation, wreathed his lip, and he sprang 
lightly to the ground, gathering up the rose-leaves, thrust- 
ing them within his vest, murmuring, half-aloud, " Beautiful 
Francoise ! " 

Scarcely had the words left his lips when the loud blast of 



rilANCOISE DE FOIX. 211 

a bugle rang through the forest, and the chase swept by. 
Many a plumed cap was doffed low as the king stood forth ; 
but the stateliest of them all bent his flashing eye sternly on 
the monarch, and, haughtily erect, rode onward, deigning no 
courtly salutation to him who lingered in the green wood, 
coining words as soft and as false as ever won the love of 
woman or broke the heart of man. 



From each embayed window, from every balcony overlook- 
ing the spacious court of the Chateau of Chambord, rang 
forth gay peals of laughter, as the royal court looked down, 
one sunny morning, upon an imprisoned boar, maddened by 
spear and arrow, and rushing wildly to and fro in the closed- 
and guarded court beneath. 

" On ray honor, ma mignon, his rage is superb," said the 

king to the beautiful Duchess of , within the embrasure 

of the window in which he stood, that, unimpeded, he might 
behold the gigantic efforts which the foaming animal was 
making to overleap the high barrier around. 

As the dark eyes of Marguerite de Valois flashed, and her 
cheek crimsoned with excitement, the glowing beauty of his 
sister riveted the attention of Francis ; and he ran his eye 
over that crowded saloon, asking himself if, among the many 
gathered there, there was one so lovely. 

His glance fell upon a girlish figure, somewhat apart from 
the rest, with her hands clasped wearily before her as she sat, 
taking no part in the gayety and excitement of the others ; 
her blue eyes resting upon one who stood far off amid a group 
or gentlemen, with folded arms and gloomy brow. No eyes 
but those of Francoise de Foix were so lustrous with feeling ; 
no yance in all that glittering train sought another's so full 
of timid love. The youngest bride there smiled not as softly 
upon her lord. 

There was a prolonged burst of merriment as the boar 



212 THE SIGNET-RING : OR; 

made yet another futile effort for freedom ; but the king's 
glance was riveted. Just then there was a heavy crash, as 
though the oaken panels of the outer door were shattered, 
and every one rose up with paling cheek. A moment's 
silence succeeded, followed by one universal cry of terror, as 
a rushing step was heard coming up the broad stairway. A 
fearful bound along the corridor, and statue-like and rigid 
grew each breathing form ; a hot, fierce breath stirred the 
silken drapery veiling the entrance, and a solitary being, a 
woman, young and ineffably beautiful, stood up, gazing wildly 
upon the fluttering drapery before her. Like the calm of a 
coming tempest sank the hush of silence along that lofty hall. 
As the curtain floated back, the wild boar paused upon the 
threshold, his burning eyes glaring upon the slight figure which 
barred his progress. His bloody tusks were spotted with 
foam, his limbs convulsed by madness. One moment, and, he 
raised himself for his fatal leap, while the blue eyes wandered 
to a rigid form in the distance. But ere they closed, a 
thrilling cry of joy swept upward to the vaulted ceiling, 
as the animal rolled in its death struggle close to the very 
feet of Francoise de Foix, the trusty sword of the king yet 
quivering in its heart. 

" Give way, gentlemen, give way ! Do you not see that 
she has but fainted ? " And the king, as he spoke, waved 
back the crowd gathering about her, as upon his own arm he 
bore her to a couch within the recess of an open window. 
Had the monarch won a life but to desecrate it, that thus he 
bowed himself down until his heavy plume swept that 
blanched cheek, while his breath warmed the cold lips with 
his impassioned words, waking Francoise de Foix from that 
breathless, dreamless sleep ? 

Paralyzed with terror, the wretched Count de Chautebriand 
had stood, the entire length of the saloon intervening between 
himself and her whom he deemed his false, yet still beloved 
wife. He met not the imploring glance turned towards him ; 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 213 

— the stateliest form in France intervened between them. He 
only knew a king arose to conquer and subdue. 

One might have heard that stern heart beat when the dead 
boar bounded to his idol's feet. Though he stirred not, his 
gasping breath told the deadly fear which held him captive. 
But when the plume of Francis swept that unconscious face 
ere it rose, he stood beside them, while fierce words and bitter 
came struggling to his lips for utterance. But his sovereign's 
glance was upon him. His lord stood before him, and his eye 
alone spoke the deadly hatred born within his breast. 

The long golden curls fluttered in the breeze, and the eyes 
of Fraucoise rested upon her husband for a moment in dreamy 
wonderment ; then, as memory came back, the slender fingers 
which he had taken struggled for freedom, and, with a faint 
shudder, the blue eyes were turned away, — turned but to 
beam soft and bright upon the king. 

For the first time the Countess de Chautebriand smiled 
upon him with gratitude and kindness. Ere that smile had 
faded from her lip, the Count de Chautebriand had departed. 
His very intensity of feeling had alienated the gentle and 
loving spirit which had been hitherto devoted to him. 

" Gone, Ninette, gone ! " gasped forth the horror-stricken, 
deserted wife, when she learned the departure of her husband 
for Brittany. "Gone, leaving me here, and alone! No 
farewell, no mention of return ! Abandoned, and by thee, 
Jean ! Leave me, girl ; do not presume to look upon my 
anguish ! " Her tones were harsh and stern ; so unlike her 
usual soft, low utterance, that the girl shrank back, half in 
fear ; but even as the wretched woman spoke she sank down 
upon a seat, her head drooping low upon her bosom. 

" Nay, I cannot leave thee thus, dear lady ! " and the girl 
knelt down by her side, pressing her lips to those cold fingers, 
whispering, " There is one who will comfort thee." 

" Comfort, Ninette, comfort ! Alas ! you little know how 
desolate, how wretched, I have become ! And I was so gay, 



214 THE signet-ring; or, 

so joyous, ere I came hither ! I must go home, Ninette. 
None here care for the unhappy Francoise ; every hour I 
linger in this royal palace adds a fresh drop of bitterness to 
the cup already full to overflowing. I will petition the king. 
He is gracious; he will not refuse my prayer." 

" Seek him to-night, this very hour, madam ; he will not 
refuse you," urged Ninette, taking up a mantle, and offering 
it to her as she spoke. 

"Yes, I will go myself; he is always gentle, and — " 
Why did she pause and hesitate ? She could not herself have 
answered wherefore. 

Alone in his dressing-room sat the monarch. He had dis- 
missed his attendants, and, with a dreamy smile upon his lip, 
his head pillowed upon the silken cushions of the luxurious 
couch upon which he reclined, he lay dreaming of the beauti- 
ful Countess de Chautebriand, when the curtain which veiled 
the entrance was withdrawn, and a favorite page entered, fall- 
ing reverently upon his knee before him. The brow of Fran- 
cis darkened as he looked on the intruder ; but when the page 
said, "A lady craves admittance, sire," the king's brow 
cleared, his eyes flashed, and he answered, " Admit her at 
once." Once more he sank back upon the couch, but not 
until he had glanced toward a tall mirror before him, while 
he ran his jewelled fingers through his long, perfumed locks. 

" His majesty will admit you," said the boy, in audible 
tones. Then the curtain was gathered back, and it fell with 
a low rustle to the floor, as the door was closed, and a lady, 
closely muffled, would have knelt before the king ; — but he 
anticipated her by rising, and taking her hand in his. 

" Sire, I have a boon to beseech of thee." Her voice was 
low and tremulous, and Francis smiled, as he gently withdrew 
the heavy veil, and looked upon the burning cheek and spark- 
ling eyes of Francoise de Foix. 

"It is granted, sweet lady, ere it is asked," answered the 
king, in his softest tones, "save it be to leave us; and we will 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 215 

not think Francoise de Foix will be thus ungenerous towards 
her sovereign." 

"Pardon me, sire, but on my bended knee," — and she 
knelt at his feet, in spite of his efforts to prevent her, — " on 
my knee I would beseech it of thee." 

" To leave me, Francoise ? " asked the low voice. 

But she continued, unheeding him. " I have a child, sire, 
— an idolized child, the only living thing I may now love 
without shame or guilt. This day I have been scorned and 
abandoned. Make the life you have preserved, sire, a de- 
sirable one; give me my child, my darling child, or I shall 
die, for my heart is breaking ! " 

" My poor Francoise, you do, indeed, look ill. "Would the 
power were mine to grant your prayer ; but, sovereign though 
I am, I have no authority to separate the child from its 
father." 

"Is this true, sire?" and the young mother raised her 
eyes to his with a glance which should have shamed those 
false lips into silence. But he answered, looking tenderly 
down upon the youthful sufferer, " Would, lady, it were not. 
I. cannot bear to see thee grieve thus." 

" Can the innocent suffer thus ? " murmured the unhappy 
one. " A wife, and deserted ; a mother, and childless ! 
How young — how young, to be thus lone and desolate ! " 

" No longer desolate or unloved, if you will it, Francoise," 
said the royal tempter. 

Once more she raised her eyes to his, and again they were 
eloquent with emotion. 

" I must leave thee — leave thee, sire ! " came slowly from 
her lips ; but she trembled in every limb. 

" Leave me for one who looked unmoved upon you in that 
fearful moment, this morn ? " said the wily pleader, shudder- 
ing, as if the very recollection of her danger had power to 
move him thus. 

Before her thoughts once more passed that morning hour ; 



216 THE signet-ring; or, 

again she looked upon the motionless form of him who 
should have saved the life which she had consecrated to him ; 
again she saw the monarch rushing valiantly between herself 
and death. She turned toward him ; he was kneeling at her feet, 
with pleading glance and eloquent lip. Her glance met his ; 
— the whole world faded into nothingness, — she stretched 
forth her hand toward him. The next moment she shrank back, 
and gazed wildly upon the outstretched hand, on which glit- 
tered a ring, — the signet-ring ! For one moment she looked 
upon it ; the next, and it lay upon the floor beneath her foot. 
A wild, exultant smile flitted over the features of him who 
knelt a monarch before her. 

''Dearest!" he whispered, fondly; and the desecrated 
hand fell softly upon his own. Was it but her own guilty 
fancy — or did the night-wind, as it beat heavily against the 
casement, frame itself into that one word, once so sweet and 
holy, now so fearful? "Anne, Anne," it sighed; and the 
false mother, even in that hour of delirious joy, knew how 
frail a thing it was. 

Sigh and murmur on thy way, whispering night-wind ! 
thou hast awakened a never-dying remorse, thou hast stung 
into bitter remembrance an erring heart ! 



Years, long years, have passed since the Countess of 
Chautebriand, just blushing into her seventeenth summer, 
shrank shivering away from the murmur of the night- 
wind in the royal palace of Chambord. Once more, as 
in other years, she presses her hands upon her ears, as if she 
would fain shut out the music pealing at intervals through 
the corridor. She sits within a chamber more gorgeous, 
more luxurious, than of old ; for the lavish hand of Francis 
has woven with jewels the dark bands which hold his prisoner 
captive. With the mantle of regal wealth he would veil 
from his captive's memory the once happy, but now terrible 
past. Flowers blushed and budded in tall, graceful vases of 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 217 

Parian marble ; the very curtains were looped with gar- 
lands of rare exotics, shedding their fragrance around. 

No longer folds of snowy silk draped the lofty walls; 
long waves of crimson and gold now trembled in the per- 
fumed air, and, in the glare of wax tapers, in all that light 
and splendor, sat Francoise de Foix, in the full bloom of 
womanhood, in the perfection of her beauty. 

But the rich lashes drooped not as of old. The eyes were 
brighter ; for the burning glances of the profligate noblemen 
who worshipped their sovereign's idol had dried up all the 
heart's dew once veiling their radiance, even as their impas- 
sioned words had seared the soul once pure and gentle. 

The girlish form had matured into a more voluptuous 
beauty, but it retained all the rare symmetry of its 
proportions. 

As her hand fell wearily upon her knee, the soft notes of a 
flute rose and died away beneath her window ; and she sprang 
impetuously up, the jewels flashing ^mid her wreathing curls. 
Gathering back the curtain from the casement, she looked 
down with frowning brow upon the intruder, as he sang, in a 
voice of almost unearthly sweetness, one of the impassioned 
songs of the day. 

That voice of music had thrilled many a woman's heart, 
but its pathos touched not the soul of her who listened. For 
a moment she gazed upon the tall form and handsome face, 
over which streamed the light from her casement, as he lifted 
his velvet cap, casting it to the ground when the curtain was 
gathered back ; and even in that uncertain light she beheld 
the grateful smile which lighted his countenance; but she 
frowned upon him. waving him haughtily away. 

" Not while the light streams from my lady's casement, 

and her shadow lingers on the curtain, — not while the night 

lends me her mantle ! Until the day dawns, will I keep my 

watch, content but to look upon the cage which holds the 

19 



218 THK signet-rinq; or, 

prisoned bird," came up in soft, impassioned tones, from 
below. 

For a moment the lady paused, irresolute ; then, bending 
down, she spoke in low and hurried tones. "Would you 
ruin me, peril my whole future happiness, by this mad pas- 
sion, Bonnivet ? Go, I beseech of you ! Already you have 
annoyed his majesty by your presumption." 

" And is it presumption to love the Countess of Chaute- 
briand ? " he answered, bitterly. 

Again the lady paused, but now it was to press her hand 
heavily upon her heart, while the voice which answered him 
was full of anguish. 

"Will you not now retire, M. de Bonnivet, — now that 
your errand is performed, and you have insulted one whom 
you profess to regard ? " 

" Pardon me, madam ! forgive me, beautiful Francoise ! 
It is Bonnivet's love that makes him unjust; smile only 
once upon me, and I will leave you." 

"You ask that which I have no power to grant. Will 
you not now retire, unless you would indeed force me to 
appeal to the king ? " and once more she stood haughtily 
erect. 

" The king ! Ah, Bonnivet envies him not, beautiful Fran- 
coise ! You love me, or I were powerless to move you thus ! " 
And he laughed a low, mocking laugh. 

Ere it ceased the curtain fell between them, and Francoise 
de Foix threw herself upon the floor, weeping passionately. 
For a moment all was silent ; then something brushed heav- 
ily against the curtain, floating it back, while a bouquet of 
roses, fresh-culled and glittering with dew, fell at her feet. 
An instant, and with crimson cheek she stood up, crushing 
the flowers beneath her foot. 

Just then the door opened softly, and Francis himself 
entered, pausing as his glance fell upon her ; but the next 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 219 

moment and he advanced to her side, and laid his hand on 
her arm, speaking before she was aware of his presence. 

*' What grieves thee thus, Francoise ? " With a slight start 
she looked up, and the light faded from her eye, the angry 
flush from her cheek, and a tear trembled upon those long 
lashes, as she gazed mournfully on his face. For a moment 
the monarch's glance rested almost sternly upon her; but 
she returned his gaze with fearless confidence, and, bend- 
ing down, he crushed a tear upon her cheek beneath his lips, 
murmuring, " What has grieved thee, m'amie ? " 

"I would beseech a boon of thee, sire," she answered, 
sadly. 

" Eefused I ever one that your sweet voice prayed of me, 
darling?" 

How fond and soft were those tones, — those tones which 
had won her, in her hour of misery, to worship him who held 
her still a captive at his side ! Darling ! — How easy a task 
it was to know no will but his, when that word, born of love, 
sounded in her ear ! 

" Sire, you have not smiled upon me throw ;^h all this 
weary day ! " 

" Look ! Am I not smiling upon you now ? " 

" Ah ! and my spirit grows warm in its sunshine. O, I 
would teach thee ever thus to smile upon me ' " 

" It were a sweet lesson, Francoise ; you will find me a 
docile pupil. But tell me, what is it you would ask of me ? 
Speak, darling ; — I listen." 

" Send away the Admiral de Bonnivet, sire." 

" Ah, madam ! " and the king dropped the hand which he 
held, and drew a step backward, with a gathering frown. 

" Nay, you shall not frown upon me ! Do you not see 
how you distress me ? " And tears filled her eyes. " You 
shall first listen to me, as you promised, and I will tell you 
all ; though it be a bitter thing tb speak of scorn and insult 
offered to one's self. Sire, this night, beneath my very win- 



220 THE signet-ring; or, 

dow, the Admiral de Bonnivet has presumed to bring hither 
his passion, mocking my affection for yourself. Will you 
permit this ? — will you allow them to add pollution to an 
already dishonored name, — to bandy that of Francoise de 
Foix? Shall my love for your majesty be made the jest of 
Bonnivet and his friends ? " And she paused, with burning 
cheeks and sparkling eyes. 

" A dishonored name, Francoise ? " asked the king, 
reproachfully. 

" Ah, fearfully so, sire ; but, with your love, I can bear it." 

There was unutterable love and devotion in that voice ; 
and, base as he had been, it touched the very soul of her 
listener. As she ceased, he raised her hand to his lips, rev- 
erently as he might have raised a queen's. 

The purity of the woman's heart was not all gone. Still 
there was one green spot left amid the ruins, where flowers 
might yet spring into being. Still, in the glory of her love, 
in the adulation of a monarch, she forgot not that she had 
fallen ; and even while she clung to that love for which she 
had sacrificed honor and duty, memory upbraided her — her 
remorse slumbered not, 

" To-morrow, Francoise," said the king, " Bonnivet leaves 
the court." 

The morning came, and the royal train gathered in the 
saloon for the chase, while the court was filled with the 
horses and their grooms, and the murmur of gay voices rose 
aloud. But Francoise de Foix lingered in the embrasure of 
a window, awaiting the coming of the king, who stood con- 
versing with Marguerite de Valois. The plume of her cap 
just kissed the delicate cheek, and swept back from the grace- 
ful shoulder. The beautiful eyes were full of dreamy thought, 
and one white ungloved hand toyed listlessly with the velvet 
buttons of her bodice. 

Moment after moment went by, and the king came not; 
but she was content to stand there in the warm sunlight, with 



FKANCOISE DK FOIX. 22X 

the murmur of his voice falling on her ear, although the fall- 
ing curtain hid him from her sight. But suddenly the little 
hands wreathed themselves convulsively together, and, with 
cheeks cold and white as marble, lips tightly compressed, lest 
her gasping breath betrayed her presence, she listened to 
words which, brief and reckless as they were, struck home 
to the very soul of that mute listener. 

'* And it was you, then, who won the fair Countess of 
Chautebriand from the shades of Brittany ? I think I now 
remember a romantic tale of a ring which possessed the 
magic power of bringing the lady to Chambord, — that was 
it, was it not?" questioned the voice of the Admiral de 
Bonnivet. 

" Ah, and little does the proud beauty dream that to 
myself alone is she indebted for her present state, — as little 
as I myself dreamed, when I sent her the counterfeit of that 
signet-ring which could alone procure her presence, that I 
was bringing one to court to queen it thus above us. They 
tell me she has scorned your suit, too, Bonnivet," said M. de 
Guise. 

" Ay, bitterly, and for its profession I must depart from 
the court ; the king has desired my absence. But she shall 
rue, in bitterest agony, the hour that she spurned me. When 
we meet again the idol will have fallen, — a brighter star is 
rising on the court of Francis." 

He had barely ceased speaking when the curtains were 
swept far back, and, with the same deadly pallor on her 
cheek, Francoise de Foix stood before them ; but not upon 
the one who was prophesying her fall with words of fierce 
passion fell those eyes, filled with all the anguish of an 
outraged spirit, but upon him who had betrayed her. 

As she stood there memory had wandered through the 
long vista of restless, remorse-haunted years, to youth's inno- 
cent guilelessness. Low and fearfully calm were the tones 
in which she addressed the recreant noble, while he gazed 
19# 



222 THE signet-ring; or, 

awe-struck upon that woman's form, quivering with a passion 
fierce and bitter as ever swayed the heart of man. 

"And it was you, then, M. de Guise, that aimed that 
wanton arrow at the heart of Francoise de Foix ? Know 
that the arrow, so recklessly sped, wounded to death a heart 
purer than your own dastard soul could conceive of ! Know 
that, in the sight of*^God, and all honorable hearts, you are a 
guiltier coward than the assassin who has imbrued his hand in 
kindred blood, — for you have sought to destroy an immortal 
spirit!" 

And, with a step slower, heavier, than it had ever been 
before, she turned from the side of the startled nobleman, 
gathering up her robe that it might not touch him as she 
passed, as though there were pollution in his contact. 



Once more within the recess of' an embayed window, in the 
stately palace of Chambord, stood Francoise de Foix, with the 
golden light falling through the richly-painted glass upon her, 
the glittering folds of her dress sweeping to the tapestried 
floor. ' 

Thinner and paler than when we last looked upon it is the 
fair face ; but, with that proud consciousness of her own love- 
liness which one so beautiful and worshipped as she had been 
could not fail to possess, she never dreamed of condescending 
to hide the ravages which grief was making in her beauty, by 
those arts so well known to the ladies of the French court. 

But, though her cheek had lost something of its fulness 
and its rich bloom, she had, perhaps, never, in her most bril- 
liant hours, looked more fascinating than on that sunny morn, 
with her pale cheeks, and lustrous eyes, dewy with unshed 
tears, as they rested on the king, as, with his cap in his hand, 
its long plume trailing on the floor, he came slowly up that 
crowded saloon, a faint smile on his lip, his heavily-fringed 
lids drooping over the dark hazel orbs so laughing in their 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 223 

beauty, as they rested on the fair forms bending reverently 
before him. 

Nearer and nearer he came towards the spot where she 
stood, her hands tightly clasped, and trembling in every limb. 
No longer fearless and happy she waited his coming. The 
lip which had smiled upon her was forgetting its fondness ; 
the tones of that musical voice had lost something of their 
sweetness. Another ear was drinking in the music once all 
her own ; but, still hoping even against hope, she was strug- 
gling for that which was passing away. 

The king's glance fell not upon her, and he was passing on- 
ward, when suddenly a shadow lay on the sunlit floor before 
him, and, looking up, he beheld Francoise de Foix, as she 
advanced a step from the recess. A sweet asking smile flitted 
over the beautiful face, as the monarch's glance rested upon 
her ; and, for the first time for many days, he smiled faintly 
in return, advancing to her side, as she sank back, leaning 
heavily against the casement. With a quick, hurried motion 
of his hand, the king loosened the silken curtain, while its 
folds fell low, screening that pale face from the curious 
glances bent upon it. 

" Look up, m'amie ! " he whispered, in low tones, lifting 
caressingly the mass of golden curls shading the sad face, and 
looking into those mournful eyes. 

" Are you ill, my bright-eyed one, that your graceful 
limbs quiver thus like an aspen-leaf, your heart beats like a 
prisoned bird ? " 

It was weeks, nay, months since he had thus addressed her ; 
and while once more the color came glowing to her cheek, she 
bowed her head upon the hands clasped within her own, bath- 
ing them with her tears. 

" Hush, darling, hush ! Nay, never weep thus bitterly, or 
we shall have the attention of the whole court drawn upon 
us." And, as he spoke, Francis gently raised the drooping 



224 THE SIGNET-RING ; OR, 

head, adding, " I must leave thee ; forget this silly emotion, 
Francoise." 

And he would have turned away ; but she laid her hand 
upon his arm, and, forcing back the tears which would have 
fain flowed fast and free, looking up imploringly, she prayed, 

" Not yet, — go not yet, sire ! I will be very calm, — do 
not fear me. I will choke back these tears, though they stifle 
me ! " And she pressed her hand heavily to her heart, while 
her voice was low, almost indistinct with emotion. 

" Francis, you are forgetting all your old love for me ; it 
is passing away ! " 

It was rare, very rare, that she addressed him thus. Only 
ill moments like this, when the human heart rouses itself in 
all its power, are the world and its forms forgotten. 

When she called him Francis, he knew that she was deeply 
moved. Once every pulse had thrilled to hear himself thus 
addressed ; now a frown gathered on his brow, and he half 
averted his face. But she heeded it not, and, drawing closer 
to his side, clasping his arm yet tighter with her little hand, 
as if she would cling to him forever, she continued, "You are 
forgetting, sire, how terrible was the sacrifice which I made 
for you. Terrible as was that sacrifice, I fear me Francoise 
de Foix could again make it for the love of Francis of 
France." 

" He will spare you that trouble, madam. You have 
taught him a lesson by which he will profit. Henceforth his 
love shall be given to those whose happiness will be saddened 
by no painful memories, — whose joy in his afiection shall 
compensate them for all that they have lost, — for her who 
has no vain regrets to weary him, or make herself miserable." 

Francoise de Foix had raised herself with his first words, 
listening with blanched cheeks. Once or twice she shuddered ; 
once or twice she glanced restlessly to the court below, as if 
she would have fain dashed herself from that high window, 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 225 

down upon the sharp pavements beneath, in the frenzy of her 
despair ; but once more, when he ceased, she spoke. 

" Sire, do you think that there will be one who can love 
you more wholly than I have loved ? 0, believe it not ! 
Have I mourned over the past while you smiled upon me ? In 
your love have not the past and the future been alike forgotten ? 
Have I ever craved the luxuries with which your generosity 
has surrounded me? Think you, had Francis of France 
woven a frail flower in my hair, that I had not prized it as 
highly as the richest jewel that he has twined therein? O, 
not that you were her sovereign, has Francoise de Foix loved 
you ; not for the royal home you have given her. All, all 
here were idle pomp and glittering void, without you ! Re- 
member, sire, how devotedly, how entirely, I have loved you ! " 

" With the exception of my predecessor," he spoke, with a 
reckless levity. Weary of her tears, he sought but to leave 
her. He little knew how deep the words wounded which he 
recklessly uttered ; he only knew that the low, pleading voice 
was hushed, that the white fingers unclasped from his arm ; 
and, bending low to her who stood mute in her anguish before 
him, he passed onward. Not many moments after, a jewelled 
hand put back the drooping folds from before her, and the 
Countess de Chautebriand advanced into the saloon, the color 
all gone from her cheek, the long lashes drooping low over 
her eyes, the brightness of which had gone out forever. Slow 
and heavily fell the usually elastic step, and more than one* 
looked after her, as the silken robe trailed slowly past. 

She had passed half-way down the saloon, when a low, 
silvery laugh — a laugh of joy and exultation — rang out 
upon the perfumed air of that luxurious chamber ; and Fran- 
coise de Foix turned her glance in the direction from whence 
it came, and there, bending down to the young, dark-eyed 
Anne de Heilly, stood the king, with his love-smile on his lip, 
and his eloquent glance bent upon her. 

Well Francoise knew the meaning of that glance. In the 



226 THE SIGNET-RING ; OR, 

many gathered there whom he had smiled upon, she alone 
knew it in all its witchery and power, — ay, and better than 
the young girl now basking in its light. Well had it been 
for her had she passed on with averted glance ; but now 
she had read all his new-born passion, all his forgetfulness 
of herself. 

For a moment the graceful form which had full oft crossed 
those halls the mistress of a monarch's heart wavered, while 
the breath grew faint upon her lip. The trembling fingers 
clasped the rich chain worn with careless grace about the 
slender throat, as if even that light weight were oppressive. 
A breath of air stole in through an open casement, fresh 
from the dewy forest beyond ; it kissed lovingly the poor, 
wan cheeks and closing eyes, and once more Francoise de Foix 
roused herself to meet her destiny. 



It was early day, — a soft, warm summer morning, and the 
tremulous rays of the rising sun quivered over dew-laden 
flowers, and rested on the forest boughs, while the sweet song 
of the wild bird floated upon the silent air. 

Still through the shrouded casements of many a tall 
window struggled the expiring rays of the night-lamp, fading 
in the dawning light of day. From one casement alone the 
velvet drapery was withdrawn, and there sat a quiet watcher 
of the new-born day. But hers had been a long and weary 
watch. She had sat there while the evening star arose and 
went out, through the long night, statue-like, with rigid 
features and laboring breath, her agonized glance bent upon 
the long row of windows looking forth from the king's 
chamber. Suddenly her lips quivered, and she bent eagerly 
forward, as a figure emerged from the opposite wing, and came 
slowly along the terrace, with his cap drawn low over his 
brow. One glance sufficed to tell the still watcher that it 
was Francis himself. For the first time the hand loosed its 
hold on the curtain, and there, deep imbedded in the soft vel- 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 227 

vet, was the print of four taper fingers. The watcher smiled 
mournfully upon that agonized impressure ; it told how ter- 
rible was the struggle within her. Slowly, for she was weak 
and faint, she folded a mantle about her, covering the crushed 
robes of yesterday's toilet, and, opening the door, went forth. 

With folded arms and droopifig head, slowly down the 
terrace came the king. Close within the shadow of many 
trees was a bank blooming with flowers. By its side, with 
one slender arm wound about a tree for support, stood the 
wretched one — Francoise de Foix. The breeze wafted her 
robe to his side, and her breath was almost upon his cheek, ere 
he was aware of her presence. 

With a slight start, and a glance full of displeasure, Fran- 
cis looked upon the cold, pale face before him. 

" The Countess of Chautebriand ! This pleasure was in- 
deed unanticipated ! " and, with freezing courtesy, the cap 
was raised from the royal brow. 

" I am here, sire, to crave one kindly word ere I go hence." 
She spoke very low, as if she had scarce power for utterance. 
" Will you not speak to me, smile ^^pon me, once, before I 
c[uit your presence forever ? " 

" Leave me!" he said. 

She started and clasped her hands, advancing a step to his 
side ; but he drew back, and, lifting his cap, swept the green 
turf with its plume as he spoke. "The Countess of Chaute- 
briand will accept our thanks for the bright presence which 
has long graced our court. Farewell, Madame de Chaute- 
briand ! " 

The lady bent her fair head as the monarch's hat was re- 
placed, and with the same unmoved and courteous bearing he 
passed onward. 

Those dimmed but still beautiful eyes followed him until 
the last glimpse of his mantle was lost amid the trees ; then 
she too turned to go. But when she unloosed her hold upon 
the tree, and took a step forward, she fell prone upon the 



228 THE signet-rinq; or, 

green bank, crusbing the dewy flowers as she lay there utterly 
unconscious. 

Many moments went by, when a light footstep drew near ; 
then a low, frightened cry arose, and the girl Ninette sank 
down by that prostrate form, and, raising the drooping head, 
laid it gently in her lap, smoothing back the damp hair, and 
pressing her lips lovingly to the cold brow. Gradually the 
eyelids unclosed; slowly consciousness returned to the un- 
happy woman ; but still she lay there in the deepening light 
of day, her hands folded nearly on her bosom. 

" Will you not try and go in, dear lady? There will be 
passers by here anon," said Ninette. 

But the beautiful sufferer only murmured, mournfully, 
*' Let me lay here — here where he has killed me, and die ! " 

Scarcely, however, had she spoken, when there arose a 
low, chirping cry, and a bird lit on a spray of roses by her 
side. For a moment it glanced its bright eye restlessly 
around ; the next, and it warbled forth a low, plaintive song. 
With the first note Francoise de Foix hushed her sobs, and 
all silent and motionless she lay listening to its wild melody. 
It was the song of a bird peculiar to Brittany ; once only had 
she heard it since she left her home. Ninette marked the white 
lips quiver, and the tears gathering slowly upon the long 
lashes ; and still, as if inspired, the bird sang on. Francoise 
buried her face within her hands, and wept. Soft and cool 
over the parched spirit fell those heaven-born tears of a 
mother's love. 

In low, whispered accents upon the summer air arose the 
prayer for pardon, and strength to do her duty. 

The great battle of life had been fought ; sick to death with 
the strife, the human heart was turning in contrition to its 
Maker ; and with the earnest prayer came strength and resig- 
nation. 

Long the sunset lingered in the spacious chamber of an 
ancient and stately chateau in Brittany, as if with its bright 



FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 229 

beams it would fain warm into beauty the dark oaken panels 
and draperies of that cold and silent chamber. As the day- 
light faded and the shadows thickened, one with a pale, thin 
face rose up from her watch by the side of a couch, about 
which fell dark and heavy curtains, which she withdrew. 

Few would have recognized the once smiling face of the 
gay Ninette in that care-worn prisoner; but the waning 
light rested upon one who lay there weak and helpless, and 
far more sadly changed. Sorrow and remorse had worked a 
fearful havoc in the once perfect beauty of that face. 

Fearfully attenuated, but still white and transparent, one 
frail arm lay upon the pillow, over which fell a cloud of gold- 
en hair, as soft and luxuriant in its beauty as when jewels 
had flashed amid its bands. She was asleep, and dreaming, 
Ninette knew by the faint smile creeping to the lip that 
never smiled but in her dreams, when she would often mur- 
mur, "Anne." Ninette had beheld those lips quiver more 
than once as she lay there in that lonely chamber, heart- 
broken but unrepining, and as a distant laugh had at times 
echoed on her ear. But she knew that it was only the un- 
conquerable emotion of the mother's heart. No rebellious 
thought ever arose in that penitent breast against the stern 
will that held her a meek captive in the most remote cham- 
ber of that home to which she had returned, where the music 
of her child's voice alone might echo on her solitude, mock- 
ing her with the happiness which she had forfeited. 

As the smile faded from her lip she awoke, and there was 
an unusual brilliancy in those sunken eyes as she glanced 
toward Ninette. 

" Does he know that I am dying? " she asked, very faintly. 

Ninette bowed her head, and her tears fell fast upon the 
cold hand of her mistress. 

All at once a faint color stole over the cheek of Francoise, 
as a distant step fell on her ear. She put back her falling 
hair, and listened intently to the coming footsteps. 
20 



230 THE SIGNET-RING ; OR, FRANCOISE DE FOIX. 

She strove to rise from her pillow as the door opened, but 
she had no strength. Two persons came slowly forward, and 
stood before her. The one, a man, with a pale, stern face, 
and many a silver thread woven amid his dark locks ; the 
other, a girl, young and singularly beautiful, but her cheek 
flushed, her bearing haughty, and an expression of strange 
sternness on her youthful face. 

A wild, eloquent glance sought hers, and the color faded 
fl-om the girl's cheek, the blue eyes grew dim. 

The girlish figure bent down to meet that imploring glance. 
Tears gushed to her eyes, and fell warm upon that tortured 
countenance. 

" Mother, my own mother ! " broke the terrible silence. 

" Anne ! " She spoke but the one word, and the girl's 
arms were wound about her. The cold lips met her child's in 
one long, lingering caress ; and a smile of ineffable joy stole 
over her face. 

" Mother, mother ! " broke out again upon the silence. But 
the voice which had answered her was forever hushed. Fran- 
coise de Foix was dead ! 



THE STATUED GATEWAY. 



Since my far childhood oft I 've paused to gaze 
On two fair forms wrought in the ancient days, 
Grand with the glory of the olden time, 
Carved from pale marble in a sunlit clime. 

Before a mansion dark with age they stand, 
Guarding its portals with a proud command ; 
There rest the day's first gleam and latest glow, 
Summer's warm smile and Winter's mantling snow. 

For them young Spring unfolds her earliest flowers ; 
There the sweet lilac pours its perfumed showers ; 
There Autumn leaves are hurtled by the blast, 
To nestle where their shadows once were cast. ^ 

Worn stones beneath bear trace of many feet, 
Footsteps long vanished from the crowded street ; 
Youth grew to manhood, manhood trembled back 
To feebler step, upon that ancient track. 

Perchance glad eyes have looked in loving light 
On those pale faces, gleaming through the night, 
That oft, through after years, in wild despair, 
Questioned their tranquil beauty, watching there. 

They guard a household, warders at its gate, 
With all the solemn secrets of its fate ; 



232 THE STATUED GATEWAY. 

The hearth-stone's shrine, its glory and its gloom,- 
Its buds of promise shorn for heavenly bloom. 

Silent, like Hope and Memory, they keep 
Their marble rest, while mortals watch and weep : 
Her glance uplifted to celestial spheres ; 
His, darkly looking down the vale of years. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 



*' He who lovetli not, knoweth not God ; 
For God is love." 

CHAPTER I. 

Some distance back from the road leading to the village of 
Medford, there stands an old-fashioned country-house. Tall 
elm-trees throw their shadow over its antique portico and 
narrow casements ; but the glory of a summer day — a day 
made up of sunbeams and zephyrs — penetrates the affluent 
June foliage of those forest-trees, and fills every nook and 
chamber, except one, with its spirit-cheering light. 

In that chamber the blinds are closed. The muslin curtains 
fall in many a snow-white fold to the cool matting upon the 
floor. But the fragrance of flowers, and the perfume of the 
dewy meadow lands that sweep in many a wide acre about the 
ancient house, breathe mockingly to the tortured sufferer 
within of the exuberant beauty and life without. For a human 
being lies there, with life's strength fainting into death's 
weakness, and wrestling the while with the unconquerable 
adversary of mortality. 

From the setting of yesterday's sun, Hannah Worthington 
knew that she must die before many hours ; and, with the 
ebbing of her strength, the desire for a prolonging of her days 
had grown apace. Not that life was dear to her in its usual 
acceptation — much happiness, near kindred ties. 

The first frost of girlish disappointment had congealed into 
20=^ 



234 THE HOMESTEAD. 

ice in her breast with the lapse of time. The once gay blue 
eyes had grown stony in their expression. She taught herself 
to believe that the cold, passionless routine of her daily duties 
was alone acceptable in the eye of God, sternly repressing 
every natural impulse, every desire of a softer birth. 

And thus she passed frigidly on to nearly half a century ; 
accounting herself, with arrogant pride, her Father in heaven's 
well-beloved and faithful child. No charity for human frail- 
ties, in all that time, had from her lips ever shed its divine 
sunshine over an erring spirit. And yet none ever craved 
material aid who left her empty-handed. 

But woe to her, or to him, who failed in the measure which 
she meted out as duty, if of her they sought favor. " Go thou 
and sin no more ! " fell never in hallowed accents from her 
lips, when the broken-hearted penitent knelt a suppliant at her 
feet. 

"When or where she accepted the stern creed, which she 
hugged to her heart until that death-hour, I know not. Per- 
chance it was born in that hour of life's bitterest travail when 
love and faith gave way to their deadly opponents, falsehood 
and despair ; perchance it grew into strength in the daily 
manifestation of her own father's life, — a life unhallowed by 
love of God or man. 

However it might have been, in the end it gained the 
mastery over the home circle, and ruled there with a despot- 
ism like nothing else on earth. 

Even the stern old man, who looked with haughty defiance 
on the passing of time which was bearing him swiftly forward 
to the day when his tall figure, which spurned the usual 
decrepitude of extreme age, should lie low in the grave, — 
even he felt its subtle influence reacting on him. And now 
the tread of many feet in the chamber above told him that 
Hannah Worthington, his eldest child, she who had filled from 
her youth her dead mother's place in his home, was dying ; but 
he stirred not. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 235 

Aslant his gray head fell the mellow light — over his with- 
ered cheek, his clasped and trembling hands ; but the warmth 
of the sunlight fell cold upon his cheek, with the gray hue 
of ashy terror thereon. In the fiercest carnage of battle 
John Worthington's cheek had paled not as then. The spirit 
of the old Revolutionist, which had thrilled to the deafening 
roar of battle, lay faint and tremulous within his bosom ; for 
he knew now of a fiercer conflict going on beneath his roof. 

Once, with tottering, feeble steps, he had essayed to ap- 
proach the death-bed ; but the shrill, tremulous voice, praying 
" God's mercy for him, the gray-haired, sinful old man," and, 
with yet greater anguish, entreating pardon for herself, who 
had sinned even more than he, — she who had professed her- 
self the faithful disciple of His holy word, calling on God 
for yet another life-lease, that, rising up once more, she might 
better do his bidding, — this he heard, and knew these words 
to be to her of bitter significance. 

Now in the sunlight sat the old man, driven oJGf from the 
shadow of that death-bed, which, had it followed a life of 
wider charity, of holier, broader Christian views, — had been 
lit by the efi"ulgence of divine hope and peaceful faith, — 
something of its peace and trust had, perchance, dispelled the 
gloom of his soul. 

But a sadder doubt than any which grew into dogged, 
stubborn resolution in his heart was engendered that day in 
the brain of youth, by another witness of Hannah Worthing- 
ton's death. 

All the morning a boy of eight or nine years of age had 
been playing beneath the portico, or out upon the lawn, cast- 
ing furtive and wistful glances at intervals into the open hall, 
and up the oaken staircase leading to the upper chambers. 

There was an expression of vague sadness and curiosity 
depicted upon his expressive countenance; and more than 
once he stole cautiously into the house, and listened at the 
chamber-floor, only to turn away hurriedly, and seek the free 



236 THE HOMESTEAD. 

air and light of open day with a heavy sigh, as if some new- 
born terror had entered his brain. 

No one noticed him. Even his grandfather, who was wont 
to pass his hand fondly over his brown hair, and gaze proudly 
into the sunny eyes uplifted to his own, had suffered him to 
stand by his side wholly unregarded. 

When the sun was near to the meridian the distant voices 
of children returning from school drew him down the lawn to 
the gate opening to the road, and, sitting down beneath the 
shadow of the lilacs arching the gateway, he awaited the 
passing of his playmate, John Spenser. By and by a group 
of boys came trooping along, with this friend among them ; 
and he, perceiving the lonely boy sitting there, detached him- 
self from the rest, and sat down by his side. 

To the boy's eager questioning Harry replied, "Aunt Han- 
nah is dying ! " and then his companion's face took the same 
half-frightened, awe-struck expression which Harry's had 
worn. 

The day previous, as they sat there talking, they had 
anticipated, with something very like pleasure, the period of 
Harry's release from the thraldom of his aunt's guardianship; 
but they now scarcely ventured to give words to the hope 
which was swelling mutually within their hearts, of a less 
rigorous, a milder sway, on the part of his younger aunt, 
" Dear Aunt Bessie," as he had been sometimes permitted to 
call her whose charge he was henceforth to become. There 
was that in the near presence of death which sobered even 
the sense of coming joy. 

But when John Spenser ventured gravely to assert that 
" Miss Worthington was so good herself she would not mind 
dying," Harry looked very grave, and then, in a mysterious 
whisper, went on to tell him that " Aunt Hannah had been 
bad all along ; a wicked woman, and was afraid to die." He 
had heard her, he afl&rmed, confess the above ; and now he 
declared that he would " not be good her way any more." 



THE HOMESTEAD. 237 

Harry Worthington's conception of goodness was strict 
obedience to the regulations which his aunt had laid down for 
the rigid observance of the Sabbath, and all things appertain- 
ing to that religion to which she had consecrated nothing of 
the holiness of love, nothing of the beauty of peace. Many 
an hour of childish serenity had been turned to one of bit- 
terest strife and passionate rebellion by some chance over- 
sight of her charge. 

For a time the two boys sat talking together in subdued, 
whispering tones; then John arose, and, casting a shy, curious 
glance towards the house, went on his way. But a long time 
Harry sat there, pondering over the self-accusing words of the 
dying woman, and wondering if everybody would now know 
how wicked she had been. With secret joy he anticipated 
telling a certain old lady, who had been in the habit of coming 
there, and regarding his boyish foibles with the same severity 
with Aunt Hannah, counselling him ever to better imitation 
of her virtues, how he had found her out, at last, to be no 
better than himself, with all her pretended goodness. 

The afternoon was half gone when he approached the house, 
and all there was still, — very still. The blinds had been 
closed, and the whole place wore a hushed and solemn aspect. 
His grandfather no longer sat in the sunlight, but in a dark- 
ened room, with his eyes bent vacantly on the floor ; and, as 
he looked through a half-open door, Harry caught from 
within a low, stifled moan from his Aunt Bessie. 

But not until evening did the icy terror of death, which 
had been creeping all day into his heart, settle down there 
with all its appalling realization. The white sheet drawn 
straight over the head and the feet was turned back ; and the 
vision of that frozen, haggard face, lying there in the still, 
soft summer evening, fixed itself forever in his brain. 

" I will not be good any longer her way;" and, with this 
resolve in his heart, the boy shut his ear henceforth to a reli- 
gion which seemed to him so shallow and narrow a thing ; 



238 THE HOMESTEAD. 

while the recklessness of youth waxed apace with the dawn- 
ing of manhood, and the memory which clung upas-like 
through all years to the recollection of his boyhood 



CHAPTER II. 



« To me, a dream without a name, 
A sadder thought : 
To thee, a strong religious flame, 
A fearless spirit in thine eyes." 

O'CONNEK. 

Nearly fourteen years had passed since the events related 
in the preceding chapter. The roses of June were in their 
glory, and Harry Worthington's return to the homestead was 
hourly expected, after a long absence in foreign lands. But 
the roses lay withered and dead on the green turf, and still 
he came not, though the first flush of early summer had 
ripened into the rich fruitage of September. All through the 
morning there had been an unwonted stir and bustle through- 
out the old house, and the sun's rays gilded portico and case- 
ment as on the far-off June day when Hannah "Worthington 
had died. But its beams rested on other tombstones than her 
own, with the name of the family graven thereon. The old 
man had been found sleeping his last sleep, with no trace of 
the last battle which he had fought on his passionless face. 

But out of the very gloom of their death there had been 
infused into the place a spirit so pure, so joyous, as to irra- 
diate the whole house with its sunshine. 

In her loneliness Bessie Worthington had taken a young 
orphan child, utterly destitute, with no other claim than that 
of youth and helplessness upon any human being. She had 
been, however, well repaid for the care and bounty which she 
bestowed, by the girl's fulfilment of the promise of her 
childhood, as she grew in years, with a face of winning 
beauty, a gay spirit, and a warm, loving heart. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 239 

When Harry Worthington had been last at home, Hope 
Kaymond ^vas but a child of tender years, whom memory 
recalled with the recollection of boyhood. 

The grave, sweet eyes, the braided golden hair, with the 
fair face, mantled with the flush of youth and health, which 
he met upon his return, kindled at once his admiration and 
his regard. 

A connoisseur in woman's loveliness, from his long artistic 
studies of the fairest living subjects, and his intimate acquaint- 
ance with the wondrous beauty of the finished models of the 
dead masters' portraitures of bygone years, he was well fitted 
for a ready and true appreciation of the peculiar and deli- 
cious beauty of the young, unconscious subject who sat before 
his easel in the little studio which had been fitted up in the 
old house for his use. 

Experience in life's conflicts, with the passage of time, had 
more than ordinarily changed the character of the boy. 

With his tall stature, spare through study and vigil, but 
graceful from habitual ease, — his countenance, intellectual 
and expressive, through the cultivation of genius, native-born 
and high, which redeemed from all appearance of imbecile 
sensuality the fall blue eyes and expressive mouth, — but with 
boyhood's sunny light forever stricken from his face by the 
life which he had led, Harry Worthington came back to hia 
home. 

If, in the shadow which had fallen across the lineaments 
of youth, one might read the dim outline of a stormy conflict 
with life's high duties yet to come, the revelation of his 
bosom's secrets would prestige the actuality of what those 
features' change but dimly prophesied. 

With the scepticism of his youth grown into the bold and 
subtle sophistries of maturer life, not the highest code of the 
honor of conventionalism, which he chivalrously professed, 
could stand a shield between one who should found a human 
hope on such faith as his and the danger of that trust. 



240 THE HOMESTEAD. 

The studio wkich he fitted up for himself, with his adroit 
and ready skill, was in the upper story of the old house, 
hitherto used but as a lumber-room ; and it grew, even in 
his own appreciation, into an agreeable abode in which to 
indulge his dreamy reveries ; while Hope, charmed with the 
novelty and congeniality of the spot, expressed, with girlish 
enthusiasm, her delight. 

And not all the southern hue and splendor of the golden, 
fragrant atmosphere and light which had once illumed his 
foreign atelier had been half so enchanting as the chance sun- 
beams which fell over the slight figure standing by his side, 
while he gathered back the curtain muffling the casement, 
and together they gazed upon the far-stretching meadow 
lands, high woods, and winding river, before them; — she 
full of happiness, and a grateful sense of the joy and peace of 
a pure and perfect life ; he half subdued and made pure by 
the contact of her presence. 

In her companionship with Harry Worthington, Hope 
Raymond experienced none of that first reserve and shyness 
which she would have felt toward one less intimately connected 
than he had been with her for years ; and therefore she had 
installed him at once, on his arrival, to the privileges of 
her nearest friend, next to her whom she had called alike 
with himself " Aunt Bessie." 

And Harry Worthington had joined, as her adopted 
brother, in her daily pleasures, her pleasant avocations ; but 
he never had for a single moment forgotten that no tie of 
consanguinity held them in unison. He remembered it 
always with a strange, indefinable sense of pleasure, even 
while he ceased not to recognize an insurmountable barrier 
which must forever debar him from a closer connection with 
Hope Raymond. 

Rapidly, imperceptibly to them both, time was passing 
away ; and autumn was harvesting the brightest hours of the 



THE HOMESTEAD. 241 

girl's young life, the saddest and the maddest of his own 
wild manhood. 

The portrait of Hope made but slow progress towards 
completion. It seemed as if the artist's skill failed to portray 
the master's true conception of a correct likeness of the 
patient model who sat there, hour after hour, day after day, 
in serene, contented obedience to his desire. The coloring 
was never quite right; the ideal upon his canvas seemed 
less perfect than the actual; and yet a less interested 
observer would have thought the fair, sweet face which 
looked forth upon him bore no poor comparison to that of the 
original. 

But at length the artist himself confessed that he could do 
no more. 

It was the last day of autumn. The gale of the preceding 
night was subsiding, but still the wind moaned drearily about 
the casements, and with every fresh gust the rain-drops 
broke heavily upon the window-panes. 

Fierce had been the storm over night ; but it was as noth- 
ing in its height to the tempest of passion and despair which 
had been driving through the breast of one man. 

All alone in his distant chamber, with a letter crushed in 
impotent anger before him, had Harry Worthington fought a 
fierce battle with honorable duty and selfish desire. 

The very- spirit which was tempting him to sin and ruin, 
and the remnant of duty and virtue yet left him, the good 
angel of his life, had, to his excited fancy, stood there embod- 
ied in the half-lighted room, and together fought the combat, 
the result of which he was to abide forever. 

The trace of the storm was visible in his haggard cheek 
and his sunken eyes ; but they who looked upon him that 
day in their innocent guilelessness attributed his haggard 
cheek and feverish glance alone to the body's ailment. 

Until a late hour in the afternoon, Hope had not seen 
Harry Worthington, when he sent for her to his studio. 
21 



242 THE HOMESTEAD, 

Again he was to paint her portrait ; she was to sit to him, 
but not in the simple costume which she was wont to wear. 
To the caprice of his fancy the girl had yielded, with her 
wonted alacrity in giving pleasure to those whom she loved ; 
and she did love Harry Worthington, though the depth of 
that love she had never yet sought to fathom. 

In a brocaded robe, of the quaint make and costly fabric 
of a century previous, which had been treasured, from almost 
time immemorial, in the Worthington family ; with leaves of 
autumn's brilliant dyes braided into her glistening hair, and 
flushed with pleasure by the expectation of his delight, she 
knocked softly at his closed door. There was a glow such 
as Hope Raymond had never before beheld there on Harry 
Worthington's cheek, as she swept gracefully past him into 
the little room, the faded but costly train trailing heavily 
over the white matting of the floor, as she took her accus- 
tomed seat. But both brush and easel were thrust aside. 
Those turbulent blue eyes bent themselves upon her as he 
took the little trembling hands within his own ; and the girl's 
cheek flushed to a deep, warm glow, that grew mellow in the 
roseate hue of happiness, as her companion spoke. 

Only once the sweet face grew thoughtful, and that was 
when he bade her say nothing of what had passed that day 
to his aunt ; but she did not doubt that he had good and 
urgent reasons for his request. 

The leaves of crimson and gold which Hope E-aymond had 
braided into her hair she placed that night in the Bible 
which lay upon the table of her chamber; for they were 
henceforth consecrated relics of the gladdest hour of a gay, 
glad life. 

Again and again, in her antique robe, Hope sat to her 
artist lover. And now Harry "Worthington no longer lin- 
gered over the ftice growing into wondrous loveliness upon 
his canvas ; but, as the portrait approached its completion, it 
was of a type very difierent from that of the first painting. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 243 

Now, while he painted with conscious and subtle art, with the 
eloquence of adroit reasoning he was seeking to instil some- 
thing of his own scepticism into the guileless heart, which 
would have rejected at once, with fear and quick abhorrence, 
the bold avowal of infidelity. 

But gradually, as, half-mystified, she listened, the grave, 
sweet eyes took a deeper light, a less passionless expression ; 
the fever of unrest, which for the first time entered the 
spirit of her youth, burnt in a glowing color upon her cheek. 

In the rapid expansion of her intellect which daily com- 
munion with him developed, the expression of Hope Kay- 
mond's countenance assumed a difiierent and more striking 
character ; but it had lost the serenity of a hitherto unruf- 
fled existence. When side by side Harry Worthington placed 
the two likenesses of the girl, then he perceived how great 
was the change in that face ; and he knew that the last painted 
was the type of a spirit more closely assimilated to himself 
than the first had been. 

Standing on the hearth of the little parlor where herself 
and aunt had just breakfasted, — for Harry was away on a 
brief visit to the city, — Hope Raymond spread her hands to 
the cheerful blaze in the wide, open fireplace. 

As she stood there she gazed thoughtfully, almost sadly, 
down upon the quaint and rare device of a ring of antique 
workmanship, with which her finger had been encircled but a 
few days before, — " the symbol of the tie which made her," 
Harry Worthington had told her, " his own ; " and in the 
glance of his eye, in the brief words which he had then 
spoken, she had comprehended his rejection, his contempt, of a 
further solemnization of the love which he professed. But she 
had not refused its acceptance. The belief of her lover had 
not yet become her own ; but the mirage of a first scepticism 
lay cold on her brain. 

All at once she caught the reflection of herself in the glass 
above the mantel-piece, and reason questioned, stern and true, 



244 THE HOMESTEAD. 

if the flushed but care-worn countenance reflected therein was 
such as the blessed realization of a pure heart's hopes should 
have stamped in peace and joy thereon ; and as the girl looked, 
with a sudden sharp pang of terror at her heart, she saw that 
the innocence and guilelessness once depicted there had faded 
perceptibly with the deeper coloring of the cheek, the darker 
light of the eyes. 

Presently the clear, ringing chime of the far-off church- 
bell broke upon the silence of the morning ; and, turning round, 
she beheld the frost-work melting slowly from the window- 
panes, the first time for many years ungarlanded by the green 
leaves and red berries of winter's evergreens on Christmas 
morning. An earnest desire, an irresistible impulse, carried 
her to her chamber, there to envelop herself in her cloak. 
She did not stop to adjust, with the little harmless vanity of- 
olden times, the ribands of her hat, or the braids within; 
but went hurriedly down again, as if fearful that the sudden 
impulse which was leading her, for the first time for many a 
week, to church, would leave her as swiftly as it had come. 

The deep snow which covered the ground was hard frozen ; 
the trees were laden with many a pendant of glittering ice, and 
over all fell the dazzling rays of the unclouded sun. Some- 
thing there was in the invigorating atmosphere of the morn- 
ing, and the exercise of her long and rapid walk, that cleared 
the shadow from her brow, and lifted the gloom from her 
heart. 

The old church was dark with the drapery of its Christmas 
wreaths. The choir were chanting the anthem of the Nativity, 
when Hope Raymond, kneeling where she had knelt since 
early childhood, with her head bowed low, felt her limbs trem- 
ble, her cheek pale, with the agony of the mockery of that 
position on the part of one, as she now, for the first time, 
clearly and fully realized, trembling well-nigh on the verge 
of infidelity. 

But soon the burden of the weak and erring spirit's prayer, 



THE HOMESTEAD. 245 

" Save us from temptation ! " reverberated through the chaos 
of her despair. God and the angels alone knew how great 
had been her danger and temptation, how abiding was her 
penitence. 

All alone, in the moonlight, sat Hope in the deserted studio. 
She had stolen away from the companionship of Aunt Bessie ; 
she could not join in the old lady's gossiping humor that night, 
worn and agitated as she felt herself by the experience of the 
day. 

There was no fire in the room ; but the girl felt neither the 
cold nor the absence of other light ; for the moonbeams came 
down through the window in the roof, and bathed her in their 
frigid glory, as she sat there in Harry's easy-chair, with a 
dread of coming grief mingling with the new-born peace of 
the morning. 

Gradually phantom fancies took possession of her, strange 
visions flitted before her mind. In the still evening she was 
dreaming a wild dream of joy and of woe. 

She stood in the shadow of those Christmas wreaths, and 
the moonlight, which then streamed over her sleeping face, 
was the sun's radiance pouring through the chancel window, 
and resting on her bridal-crowned hair; but the choir chanted 
requiems for the dead, and, looking on Harry "Worthington's 
fiice, she saw that the expression there was one of defiance 
and of mockery, while there stole over his heart, through the 
purity of his bridal vestments, a deep-red stain, as if human 
blood flowed slowly from a wound beneath, and the wedding- 
ring which he placed on her finger slipped from thence with 
irresistible force, and fell to the ground. 

But it was not quite all a dream. Harry Worthington 
had returned ; he was standing before her, and the ring which 
he had given her had indeed slipped from her finger, and lay 
at his feet. 

Surprised at finding her sleeping there in the cold and 
21^ 



246 THE HOMESTEAD. 

deserted cliambcr, he was about to awake her, when she 
started up with a cry of fear and horror. 

He endeavored to subdue her agitation, and strove to smile 
away the emotion which the recital of her dream awoke in his 
own breast. But when he would have replaced the ring, 
Hope withdrew her hand from his, and, though her voice 
wavered as she spoke, her words were firm and resolute. 

" When you first gave this to me, dear Harry, I did not 
comprehend, in the moment's happy excitement of finding 
myself your betrothed wife, the avowal which you then made ; 
and I cannot again accept from you a token of an aJBfection 
which recognizes no holier consecration than its own secret 
avowal. No more, dear Harry, dare I become your wife, 
knowing, as I now do, from your own lips, that you look on 
marriage but as an idle form of conventionalism, which you 
would, without scruple, at once reject, had you the power." 

" I did not expect this of you, Hope. What has changed 
you thus since I left you ? " His tones were bitter ; he ques- 
tioned her with stern imperiousness. 

She grieved not over the coldness of those hitherto gentle 
tones, as she did over the weakness and apostasy of her own 
heart, which had given him the right to thus question her ; 
and she answered, sorrowfully and meekly, 

" Communion with my own spirit in the solitude of your 
absence, and the consciousness of the delusion with which an 
earthly afi"ection has blinded me, to a wilful doubt of that 
which, in my inmost soul, I know to be true ; and, more than 
all else, dear Harry, do I grieve over the bitter fruit of my 
degeneracy, which I now reap in the lasting conviction that 
I, who have been found vulnerable to the doubts of scepticism, 
may never be to you the humble instrument of God's mercy 
in leading you to a recognition of His infinite tenderness 
towards His children. 0, Harry ! 0, Harry ! would that I 
had not sinned, less for my own sake than thine, my beloved ! " 



THE HOMESTEAD. 247 

And, in her grief, she hid her face upon the breast that no 
longer in coldness rejected her. 

" First for my sake, then for His," whispered Hope, in ten- 
derest, imploring accents, as Harry Worthington looked, with 
strange, sad eyes, upon her tearful countenance, and strove to 
still the tumult in his own breast. 

So long did he remain silent, so intense was his agitation, 
which portrayed itself in the changing expression of his coun- 
tenance ere he answered her, that a nameless dread of the 
words which she saw he was about to utter came over the 
heart of Hope. 

" You are very cold, — you are shivering, my love ! " and 
Harry Worthington folded his own cloak about her ; for he 
felt that she would grow colder yet with his words. And then 
he went far back into the past, recalling the day of Hannah 
Worthington's death, and the rigorous years of her guardian- 
ship which had preceded it. 

" With my boy-heart hardened into unnatural obduracy by 
her constant reproaches, her never-ceasing rebukes, I at that 
period cherished the secret belief which she ever openly pro- 
fessed of the natural depravity of my nature. Suddenly 
Hannah Worthington was called to yield that exemplary 
Christian life of hers, which was deemed a model for her fel- 
low-beings. Death summoned her in the pride of that life ; 
and 0, Hope Raymond ! let me tell you how the dread mes- 
senger found her prepared for that journey. 

" The mystery of that chamber of death won the boy from 
his play to look within upon it. Scarce his childish mind 
could comprehend the burden of the words falling from her 
lips, quivering with anguish, blanched with a terror more ashy 
in its hue than . the death-shadow veiling all those haggard 
lineaments. He only knew that she, the good woman, feared 
to go, and in that coward fear expressed herself sinful in the 
extreme ; and when again he looked in, in the still evening 
time, upon her dead face, there was nothing there of that 



248 THE HOMESTEAD. 

mysterious serenity which fills the soul of a human being at 
peace with God and man ; but fear, fierce agony, was frozen 
there in death. 

" And the boy went out the succeeding day into the sun- 
light of the morning with an unburdened life, the weight of 
his past belief in his own sin lifted from his soul. * I will be 
good her way no more,' I said to myself; and thereafter there 
was more freedom, more happiness, in my boyhood. A second 
time I looked on death. I found him whom I had heard my 
Aunt Hannah and her friends term sinful through his unbelief 
in their God, — him, the proud, high-spirited old man, stricken 
from a life, vigorous even in its extreme age, to death, — 
alone, dead in his chair ; and that face bore no vestige of the 
conflict which Death had engraved upon that of his child; 
and I may never forget the contrast between the two. 

" Hope, I have thought myself a strong man ; I have been 
vain, boastful of the vigor of my youth. Look upon me now ; 
I am weak as a little child ; for the burden of my life is 
greater than I have courage in words to reveal to you. The 
words which I would speak are fainting into silence on my 
lips ; I cannot utter them. But before you leave me to-night, 
Hope Raymond, — before you open this letter, which I give 
you to read, — let me impress upon your remembrance that I 
was in ignorance of its contents — that I did not wilfully 
deceive your trust in me. And, Hope, remember always that 
I bind myself not to the belief which binds most men, — that 
I as openly, henceforth, reject, thoroughly contemn, the narrow 
and arbitrary forms which would bind me, body and soul, to 
imbecile submission to infamy and misery. I ask you not, 
Hope, for a love which will give itself as a sacrifice, with fear 
at its vitals, to corrode its peace and purit}'- ; not for a heart 
which will thrill with shame while it yields to its desire. But, 
Hope Raymond, if the miserable shackles with which the 
tuition of that i^rand tutor, society, has fettered your soul, fall 



THE HOMESTEAD. 249 

forever from thence, come to me, my beloved ! To thee earth 
shall make itself a heaven in Harry Worthington's love ! " 

There was passion in his glance, there was madness in his 
tones ; but his companion shrank not from his violence, or 
trembled at his words. She was girding up the strength of a 
pure heart, and subduing the wounded pride of maidenhood 
to answer him fitly. 

" If you lack strength, Harry Worthington, to make to me 
your confession, to lay bare to me the secrets of your life 
which it is needful that I should know, your weakness is not 
mine. I can listen ; and, surely, if I can listen, you can 
speak. From your own lips, I beseech you, suffer me to learn 
what I can better endure, if of great pain, to hear from your- 
self" 

He took back the letter which he had proffered her. Once 
or twice he paced that little chamber, luminous now with the 
full light of the moon ; and then he spoke, but his voice was 
hoarse with suppressed passion. 

" In Florence there is one whom the world calls my wife, 
one who calls herself woman. You start now — you rise — 
you are going now, Hope. I thought you said, but now, you 
would listen to what I might say." 

" There can be nothing more for me to hear ! " 

He could not tell whether it was despair or pride that 
steadied her voice to a tone so clear and quiet ; but he an- 
swered, " There is more that you should, that you shall hear, 
Hope. No affection ever sanctified the tie which she assumed, 
and I yielded to her desire. In the mad, intoxicating life I 
led in Florence, a brilliant face glowed upon my delirium ; the 
woman who called that brilliancy her own saved a life 
which time has proved too worthless, too miserable, to have 
been spared. In gratitude for the useless boon, I gave her 
what she asked. She knew well then no faith of mine con- 
secrated the idle mockery which made her, in man's eyes, my 
wife ; but she whom I would have endeavored to love with 



250 THE HOMESTEAD. 

truth, and fidelity had deceived me. She was unworthy of 
affection ; we parted in disgraceful conflict, and I returned 
home with the belief that the grave hid* her sin, my misery. 
With this conviction, in the first stages of our intercourse here 
I did not feel that, even in the eyes of the world, my love for 
you was a guilty love. 

" But later, when the fatal tidings reached me that that 
wretched existence which had been chained to mine was still 
prolonged, even as my lips first syllabled what my looks for 
weeks had told you, I yet determined, spite of the harsh judg- 
ment of my fellow-beings, to persevere in my endeavors to make 
you mine. But I refute the falsehood with which the world 
would assail me ! I recognize not the bondage with which it 
would make me a slave evermore, — a miserable outcast from 
human tenderness and human love ! Will you leave me now, 
Hope, with ruthless scorn, with proud rejection of a love 
which is wholly pure save the stain with which society 
would blacken it ? " 

" Not in scorn, not in coldness or pride, and not that the 
shadow which would rest upon its acceptance would be visi- 
ble to human eyes, — not for fear of man, but in obedience to 
God's word, — do I now and forever reject your affection ; — 
reject it even while the prayer, the one earnest desire, of this 
life, will be that a love of more ineffable tenderness, of more 
hallowed peace, than can fill man's bosom for human object — 
love for our Father in heaven, Harry — may fill your being 
soon with that peace which passeth all understanding ! " And, 
with her head drooping reverently forward, her lips still syl- 
labling a half-audible prayer to God for his salvation and 
happiness, Hope Raymond glided away from beneath the 
moon-lighted window in the roof, and was gone. 

Her words had subdued the passion of his heart ; nothing 
was left there but sorrow, and a wild, earnest longing to 
believe with her in that Refuge from this world's trials. 

Very, very weary Hope Raymond entered her own 



THE HOMESTEAD. 251 

cliamber, after leaving Harry Worthington, and sat herself 
down before the table, upon which lay a Bible that had once 
been her mother's. Half unconscious of what she did in that 
hour of heavy trial, but with a vague longing for comfort for 
her aching heart, she turned back the time-worn cover, and 
there, on the white leaf, lay the crisp buds, the gold and 
crimson leaves. 

Through the bitter memories which they conjured up, a 
keener poignancy of woe, a drearier desolation, she beheld the 
name written therein in the wavering lines and uncertain 
characters of the mother's dying hand. " Hope Raymond ! " 
— was not that a name of bitter mockery for her whose life- 
burden seemed so heavy ? But a little further, and, " save 
her from temptation, — keep her from sin ! " written in clear, 
legible letters, met her despairing eye, and in that simple 
prayer there lay a mine of more than common strength. 

" No more thy charnel glooms the soul appall. 
Pale Azrael ! awful eidolon of Death ! 
The dawn-light breaks athwart thy glimmering hall. 
And thy dank vapors own the morning's breath." 

Again there is heard the pleasant whisper of summer steal- 
ing through the old house, and murmuring its gay song of 
sunlit skies and breezy woodlands in its inmates' ears, even as 
on the day when Hannah Worthington died, two-and-twenty 
years ago. 

And now, as then, closed blinds and falling curtains bar out 
the sunlight, and something of the garden's perfume. Of 
those that were present on that day, one alone remains ; and 
child-like grief has taken the place of the wonted contentment 
of Aunt Bessie ; for the joy of her age lies like a broken blos- 
som with drooping petals, its beauty not quite all gone, upon 
the couch before her. 

Since early day the wing of the death-angel has cast its 
shadow over the watchers' hearts ; for they have known since 



252 THE HOMESTEAD. 

then that the Reaper's shining sickle has wavered long, im- 
patient to gather the fruitage of affluent youth into the garner- 
house of death. 

But the girl, sick unto the failing of all hope, lies with still, 
calm eyes awaiting the Reaper's coming. The fever of suffer- 
ing has paled her face to the hue of the white June roses 
that lie on her pillow. 

All at once the calm eyes grow starry in the light of an 
earth-born hope ; for there is a ringing step in the hall below, 
which all present hear. 

Once more a form glides up that stairway, and bends its 
head to the door of that sick chamber. But the tall, broad- 
chested figure is not like that of the boy of other years. The 
sunshine of the spirit of youth, dim then but with the shadow 
of passing fear, has faded forever ; but the intense, earnest 
light in those blue eyes, the pale, compressed lips, speak the 
heart's last, dying hope. 

" She has gone ! " broke, with fearful import to him, on 
his straining ear, as he stood, neither daring to enter or 
willing to depart. 

" She has gone ! " and the words bore him to her side. 
More than the agony of death he endured with the first glance 
which fell on the fair, still face of Hope. 

" She is not dead, — she has but fainted ! " said a voice, the 
calmness of which seemed but to mock his suffering and his 
despair, so little dared he trust to its assurance. " She hns 
but fainted, — she will live ! " it repeated once more, but in 
tones less calm and confident. 

Not for hours afterwards did they dare to trust even the 
physician's words of hope. Not until she slept that placid 
sleep which brings health and healing in its wake, and he was 
suffered to gaze for a moment on the face which he had never 
again thought to look upon in life, did Harry Worthing- 
ton dare to give way to the blessed and new-born joy of his 
heart. 



THE HOMESTEAD. 253 

The naive confession of childhood, " 1 will be good no 
more her way," he recanted, in the simple prayer of " Suffer 
me, my God, to be like unto her ! " as he turned aside from 
that sleeping girl to learn how placid was her submission — 
how entire her resignation to God's will, when he had called 
her from the joy of bridal preparations to that sick bed, from 
which she had never again thought to rise, to life's many 
hopes, earth's now great and manifest joys. 

The tidings which Harry Worthington had received of the 
life of her whom he believed had died immediately after her 
desertion of himself were false. The past gave her not up, 
to burden his future life, her own soul, with further misery. 

The seed which Hope Raymond, in her time of extremest 
suffering and sorest trial, had planted unconsciously, by the 
example of the strength of her faith in God and his love, 
ripened in her lover's heart into rich fruit in after time. 

The vows which he pronounced at the bridal altar, when 
she stood there by his side a happy, trusting bride, were 
solemn with the realization of their hallowed import. 
22 



SPELLS OF MEMORY. 



Sweet thought, entranced by memory, 
Holds commune with the buried past ; 

Once more love's 'wildering fantasy 
Is o'er my yearning spirit cast. 

To a lone niche beside the sea, 

O'erhung with trembling aspen boughs, 
Its mystic guidance leadeth me 

To listen to low-murmured vows. 

From the far portals of the west, 
A tide of glory, clear and bright. 

Floats o'er the waters' purpling breast, 
And melts its darkness into light. 

With syren hours I linger now, — 
My heart revokes its wild despair ; 

Warm-clasping hands are on my brow. 
Faint kisses touch my braided hair. 

Like the dark wave, my shadowed soul 
Grows radiant with reflected beams 

From tender eyes, whose soft control 
Enthralls me in elysian dreams. 



SPELLS OF MEMORY. 255 

But the sweet spell will not be stayed ; 

Its holy light grows faint and far ; 
Through solemn depths of rayless shade 

Scarce gleameth now one guiding star. 

I press my cold hands on my heart, 

To feel its presence palsy there ; 
O, joy-lit hours, before we part 

Take back my blessing and my prayer ! 

Though Love recalls the light he gave. 

Tell him, " I know that it will rise 
To glow again on some pure wave, 

For I look upward to the skies." 



THE CRAYON. 



CHAPTER I. 

*' Thou art now in thy dreaming time ; 
The green leaves on the bough, 
The sunshine turning them to gold. 
Are pleasures to thee now." 

The sunset hour was at hand, but the bright orb lingered, 
with its soft rays glancing over dew-laden leaves, and kissing 
fair flowers, drooping as their day-love departed, as though 
loth to leave a world so fair. And its departing rays seemed 
to sigh over the little figure resting on a green bank, in the 
shadow of a white-walled cottage, standing half-way up the 
long hill sloping to the beautiful Connecticut river. 

The flowers waving so lovingly about the little one were far 
less lovely than Loise Crayton, just budding into her twelfth 
summer, with her dark hazel eyes growing more eloquent each 
day of her life, the brown hair parted so smoothly over her 
„broad white brow. 

Yet it was not the perfect symmetry of each rounded limb, 
or the regularity of beautiful features, which arrested the eye ; 
not the mere outer loveliness, but the purity of the unclouded 
spirit, which, looking out from the depths of her eyes, shed a 
soft, sunny light over the whole youthful countenance. It 
spoke of a heart holy and pure as it came from its Maker, 
unclouded by grief, unshadowed by temptation. 

A life full of childish happiness was Loise Crayton's ; but 
better had it been for her had those eyes dimmed more fre- 



THE CRAYON. 257 

quently with tears which are born of childish grievances, that, 
when life's storms came, her spirit, taught like the flower 
to bend to the blast, had not reared itself erect in way- 
ward courage. 

It is not well with lavish tenderness to shut all knowledge 
of trial from the heart of youth; for love's watchful care, 
which has shielded those early days, may be powerless in 
inaturer years, and, new to the warfare of grief, the young 
heart may break, or harden in rebellious pride. 

Give to childhood the same bright measure of sunshine 
Heaven gives the flowers ; but spare not those April showers, 
which give strength and beauty. 

It would have been better for Loise had Mr. Cray ton striven 
less sedulously to hide all knowledge of care or sorrow from 
the heart of his motherless child ; while he, the ambitious 
man of the world, sought wealth in a distant land for herself 
and her brother, his brilliant boy, Edward, at whose rare in- 
tellectual gifts even then were waking deep notes of proud 
exultation in his bosom. 

When the daylight faded Loise arose, and, with a slow, 
reluctant step entering the cottage, passed up stairs to her 
chamber. It was a pleasant room, with white curtains veil- 
ing a window darkened by the creeping vines without. 

She paused before the low mantel-piece, and hung, with 
smiling care, a little picture in its place above. It was but a 
bit of coarse Bristol board, with a crayon sketch thereon. A 
man's head roughly drawn, and neither that of a young or 
handsome man; yet there was a certain power in the full, 
dark eyes set beneath the heavy brows, and about the lips a 
smile which it was pleasant to meet. Kude, uncomely, as the 
drawing might have been to the eye of a connoisseur, the 
most dainty form of sylph that ever smiled with cherub-face 
from magazine-plate was not half so captivating as the crayon 
to Loise Crayton. 

It was a gift from the portfolio of some travelling painter, 
22^ 



258 THE CRAYON. 

who had stopped at Woodland to sketch the surrounding 
scenery. The gentle bearing of the painter had won the 
child's fancy, and on parting with her he had that day given 
her the little picture, for which she had made a moss frame, 
and hung it upon her chamber wall. 

As she stood gazing upon it, all at once she raised herself 
impulsively on tip-toe, touching with her lips, with a warm, 
loving expression in her eyes, those which in that shadowy 
light appeared to smile softly upon her from the picture. Just 
then, some one called to her from below ; and, passing her 
hand hurriedly over her brown hair, she went down. 

The small, round tea-table was spread with its cloth of 
snow-white damask. From the tall, old-fashioned candlesticks 
fell a flood of light over the delicate tea-equipage, and the old 
lady who sat beside the little silver urn, with its many quaint 
and old-fashioned devices. She smiled pleasantly as Loise 
drew near, and motioned her companion to make room for her 
between them. 

The girl sat down by her grandmother's side, and cast a 
sorrowful glance towards the vacant seat which had recently 
been occupied by her artist friend. 

" "VVe shall miss our good friend, shall we not, love?" said 
her grandmother, observing her. Loise sighed heavily. 

" I wish we could always be perfectly happy, grandmamma ! " 

" That we can never expect to be, my darling ; God has not 
so willed it. If we were, we might cease to remember that 
heaven which he has prepared for those who have been sorely 
tried and rebelled not." 

" Such as Aunt Elsy," suggested Loise, glancing towards 
the lady who sat near her, and who, with the exception of her 
grandmother, had been from infancy her sole companion and 
instructress. She was a pale, grave-looking woman ; early 
trials had left their impress on her countenance, and, rarely 
smiling, serene from habitual self-control, she passed her life 
in the passive fulfilment of her daily duties. No wonder that 



THE CRAYON. 259 

the girl's quick discernment should embody in her presence 
the example of which the grandmother spoke. 

The mother's eyes turned tenderly on her child, and Loise 
saw that she indeed numbered her Aunt Elsy among those 
whom God would summon to rest with those of his children 
who had been tried and rebelled not. 

With gay words her companions strove to win Loise from 
her loneliness; but the first genuine heart-smile that flitted 
over her face came when the light was extinguished, and she 
turned upon her pillow, while her glance rested on the moon- 
lit wall, with the crayon's dark face thereon. And stern and 
dark it looked ; but she knew that it was but the shadows of 
the night which hid the smile on its lip, the eloquent gleam 
of the eyes ; and more than once she smiled, as her glance 
rested upon it. But after a while the white lids drooped 
languidly over the gazing eyes ; one little hand was thrust, 
with careless grace, through the loosened hair, the graceful 
limbs settled into repose, and the girl slept. 

Once or twice she stirred restlessly during the night, as a 
hurried step or louder voice from below mingled with her 
dreams ; but still she slept on, unconscious of the sorrow 
which night was giving birth to, in silence and gloom. 

In the first gray dawn of the succeeding day, hurriedly 
awakened from slumber, wild with fear and grief, she stood for 
the first time in the presence of death. Loise Crayton alone 
remembered, in after years, of having stood by her grand- 
mother's side, with her hand resting upon her head ; how, as 
it rested thereon, that head grew colder, and colder, until its 
icy touch thrilled through her whole being, and, with a wild, 
heart-breaking moan, she gazed on the rigidity of death. 

For a time she gave herself up to passionate grief; — no 
wild outbreak of sorrow, but clinging to and covering with fond 
caresses the dead. For a while she vainly strove to cheat 
herself into the belief that the power of utterance was alone 
hushed. But, when the first sharp agony was over, and 



260 THE CRAYON. 

through her falling tears she looked upon the faded face in its 
holy repose, she hushed her sobs, though the smile came not 
to her lip, and her bird-like song echoed not through Wood- 
land for many a weary, dreary day. 

The shadow of that death lay heavy on the hearts of many. 
Even on the face of Aunt Elsy there was drawn yet another 
line of sorrowful endurance ; and when Edward Crayton 
went down to Woodland, on his grandmother's death,. he also 
missed, with sad heart and swelling eyes, her gentle welcome. 
But, though grief filled all hearts, none rebelled against the 
decree which had smitten them ; for we murmur not when the 
aged die. 

On the morning of Edward's arrival, Loise sat alone in the 
parlor, on her usual low seat, drawn close to her grand- 
mother's chair; but her head rested no more on the loved 
one's knee, but lay on the cushion as she wept. 

The sun's rays were falling over her in a shower of glitter- 
ing light, and her brother paused upon the threshold. As his 
glance rested upon her, his eyes dilated, and a glow of admi- 
ration lighted his boyish features. But, as he gazed, tears 
stole out from beneath those closed lids, and lay upon her 
cheek. 

" Darling Loise," he whispered, tenderly ; and she threw 
herself into his arms, and wept and smiled in alternate grief 
and joy. With affectionate assiduity he soothed her sorrow, 
and comforted her lonely heart, until, with a feeling of tran- 
quil security from every other grief, she laid her head upon 
his shoulder and slept. 

There was something even more than deep brotherly love 
and interest in his eye as he looked upon her then. The fair, 
childish face, with its closed lids slightly flushed by weeping, 
was turned upwards to his ; the folds of her dress fell about 
him ; the slight, rounded figure nestled to his breast in beau- 
tiful repose. It was not the mere pride of a relative with 
which he regarded her, but with an innate love of the beautiful 



THE CRAYON. 261 

which was then rousing itself into being. How deeply he was 
impressed by that child-like loveliness was perceptible long 
afterwards, when the young artist's masterpiece — the child 
sleeping in his arms — touched many hearts, and won him 
warm applause. 



CHAPTER II. 

" When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth ? 
Bright stream, and dark one ! 0, never on earth ! 

Five years have passed since last we beheld the inmates of 
Woodland. It is now early morning, but the curtain folded 
over the blue sky is withdrawn, and the glowing sun looks 
down with a deepening smile, while with their soft echoing 
notes the forest orchestra heralds the advent of day. The 
curtains of Woodland Cottage float out from the casements, 
and brush the dew-drops from the tall rose-bushes whose red 
leaves strew the green sward. 

And from window to window, to and fro, flits a light figure, 
pausing occasionally to gather a rose from the bush near the 
window, or a sprig from the myrtle. The vases are filled to 
their utmost extremity; the little cambric collar has been 
many times adjusted before the old antique mirror, the brown 
curls smoothed. Now, all at once, the old mirror reflects a 
glowing, beaming face, as a carriage rolls rapidly up the 
avenue to the cottage ; and then Loise Crayton bounds out 
upon the piazza, down the steps, into her brother's arms. 
" Dearest Loise, my friend Dorrance," he says, as he remem- 
bers the gentleman by his side ; and the girl turned towards 
him. There was a slight start ; then a strange, wondering 
expression passed over her countenance, followed by a blush 
and a smile, as she gave him her hand in welcome. 

It was the fii-st time that Loise had ever seen her brother's 
friend, during the long intimacy which had existed between 



262 THE CRAYON. 

Dorrance Sullivan and Edward Crayton. But Loise had be- 
come familiar with the earnest purpose of his life, in which her 
brother's revelation, always enthusiastic in regard to him, had 
deeply interested her. They had never met, and yet she 
knew every lineament of that face. She had looked upon its 
semblance by day and by night. Yes, there were the same 
eloquent eyes, the same large, stern features; but when 
Edward spoke, and Dorrance Sullivan smiled, his whole 
countenance became luminous, and, with a strange, indescriba- 
ble sensation of pleasure and embarrassment, she recognized a 
breathing counterpart of the crayon hanging on her chamber 
wall. 

As they lingered over the breakfast-table, Loise perceived 
that, as the first excitement of his return subsided, a strange 
lassitude of manner, unnatural to her brother, crept over him ; 
and she then realized how thin was his flushed cheek, how 
fluctuating its color. 

When she questioned if he was not ill, he admitted him- 
self weary, and promised to lie down on the parlor sofa, if she 
would sit beside him. 

" Do you remember, Loise," he asked, as she adjusted a 
cushion beneath his head, and Dorrance Sullivan sat in the 
recess of the window a little way ofi", " how, years ago, one 
gad summer morning, I found you weeping by yon empty 
chair ? I soothed your childish grief, and, worn out, you sank 
asleep in my arms. The sweet picture you then presented 
has haunted me since ; and now, darling, I am going to Italy 
to seek amid the conceptions of the old masters as divine 
a portraiture of childish beauty. I once sketched you from 
memory j and, rudely drawn as my sketch was, it has often 
found admirers. There were many who came to my room to 
look at it; but Dorrance chose that we alone should gaze 
upon its lovely lineaments, and he veiled it, saying idle eyes 
should not profane with their gaze our angel child. Through 
his brotherly love for me, he claims you also, Loise ; and 



THE CllAYON. 263 

God grant you a guardian as strong and true as you will find 
in him. Through many dangers he has guided me — from 
much temptation he has shielded me. But for him, Loise, 
I believe I had gone down when the sun shone brightest ; for 
I am weak where he is strong. But the strength which has 
been denied me has been given him to fight life's battles. I 
cannot wrestle with destiny. May you, darling, be stronger 
than I ! You have changed of late, my little Loise. I can 
behold, as I look into these earnest eyes of yours, woman's 
love (that beautiful ebullition of a true heart, that is so pre- 
cious to man) stirring within you, and it bids me seek a 
woman's sympathy in you. The student's weary hours are 
repaid, Loise ; the prize for which he toiled by day and 
night, until his brain grew wild, and his strength left him, is 
at length his own. Not until I was flushed with victory had 
I courage to ask Annie Duncan's love ; and it is mine, mine 
own forever, now, Loise. I am going to Italy ; when I return 
you will have a sister — la wife." 

Once or twice, as Edward spoke, she had glanced toward 
their guest ; but his eyes were bent upon his book, and her 
brother's voice was too low for him to overhear their conver- 
sation. She little dreamed of the vision which lay between 
himself and the words before him, — a vision that sent a 
new-born thrill of pleasure through that grave, still heart. 

For a while after Edward ceased speaking he lay in deep 
thought, his glance fixed on vacancy ; then the lashes, long 
and thick as woman's, fell over the flushed cheeks, and he 
slept. 

By the window sat Dorrance Sullivan, his head slightly 
drooped upon his chest, his attitude indicating repose, but 
with a latent power in the compressed lips, and grave, almost 
stern face, contrasting vividly with the exquisite yet not 
wholly feminine beauty of the sleeper. One was the imper- 
sonation of the dreaming artist, a worshipper of the beautiful, 
born for sunshine and love ; the other, the embodiment of 



264 THE CRAYON. 

strong, athletic manhood, fitted to breast adversity's bitterest 
blast. 

A vague uneasiness filled Loise's heart as she watched 
her brother's uneasy sleep, and her hand burnt within his 
clasp. 

Long she watched him, in her earnestness forgetful of the 
presence of their guest, until, looking up, she beheld him 
standing by her side, and regarding Edward with the same 
troubled expression which had marked her own counte- 
nance. Just then the sleeper's forehead contracted as in 
pain, his eyes unclosed, and 'fixed with a peculiar expres- 
sion on Loise ; and he called her Annie, — he knew her 
not! 

Again the shadow of death floated over Woodland ; but 
now it was youth, not age, that was smitten to sudden help- 
lessness. The brilliant intellect was dethroned, and for many 
days the student lay upon his couch murmuring of his bright 
hopes and his love, utterly unconscious of all that was passing 
around him. The strong arm of Dorrance Sullivan held him 
powerless in its control when the fever madness was on him. 
The gentle hand of Loise bathed his burning head, and soothed 
him to rest. It was beautiful as sad to perceive how the vision 
of Annie Duncan haunted his spirit ; and to learn, in the rev- 
elation of his unconscious words, how far beyond his strength 
he had toiled to stand high in those loved eyes. 

But days of hope and happiness lay yet in the sufierer's 
future. Bright days of hopeful convalescence followed those 
of delirium. 

And they who had ministered to him in illness grew daily 
more conscious of the birth of a wide sympathy between their 
own hearts. Now, as Loise listened to her brother's hopes, 
she too thought how beautiful it was to be loved as Edward 
loved Annie Duncan. She questioned herself, could there be 
another on earth like it ; and Reason answered her, there was 
a holier love than his, — a love in which there was nothing of 



THE CRAYON. 265 

idolatrous worship, but an eternity of faith, — and her glance 
wandered to Dorrance Sullivan. 

The day on which Edward Crayton and his friend were to 
leave "Woodland was drawing rapidly near. Edward was going 
abroad. A southern residence had now become imperative for 
the invalid's impaired health. 

Not yet had Dorrance Sullivan spoken of love to Loise 
Crayton, but a blessed conviction of the truth lay warm and 
peaceful at her heart. 

The day preceding that on which the friends were to depart, 
Dorrance Sullivan and Loise Crayton were walking in the 
beautiful strip of wood-land which bordered the grounds of 
Loise's home. The path lay partly through the trees edging 
the bank of a little rivulet, the murmuring of whose waters 
mingled with the whisper of the wind amid the trees. She 
had taken off her hat in the shadow of the forest, and a crim- 
son flower, which he had gathered, was wound amid the waves 
of her hair. But the flower was not more bright in its blush- 
ing beauty than the glow which stole over her cheek. 

" Loise," he said, " to-morrow I shall leave Woodland ; 
with you it rests to decide if it be forever. Will it be asking 
too much if I request you not to permit time to rob me of all 
hold on your memory ? " 

There was a brief silence as the girl turned away her face, 
and he continued, " Will you think of me, Loise, as something 
more than a friend ? " 

There was a slight tremor perceptible in that manly voice, 
and womanly love rose superior to girlish diffidence. 

" Yes, Dorrance," she answered, timidly, raising her clear 
eyes to his, as she held forth her hand. He took it tenderly, 
almost reverently, and drew it within his arm. 

*' I will not bind you, Loise," he said, " in your extreme 

youth, to any rash promise. I would only thank you for the 

words which shall cheer me, give me hope and strength, 

through future years. I shall go home a richer man than I 

23 



266 THE CRAYON. 

ever dreamed of being when I came down to Woodland ; for 
the memory of this hour is given me, and no sorrow or change 
can take it from me. A richer man, though I have not deemed 
myself a poor one. Although without worldly wealth, well- 
nigh penniless, burdened heavily in life's very onset by a great 
duty towards the helpless and dependent, — not poor, Loise, 
for my Creator has not smitten me with poverty of heart. I 
have longed, Loise, for gold ; I have craved it as a hungry 
man craves bread, when suffering has called on me for charity 
and I have had naught to give ; but now I question myself, 
' Have you not reason and ordinary intelligence ? ' and a 
voice answers, ' You are not wanting ; go forth, — enter fear- 
lessly the arena of life, and achieve fortune unaided, that it 
may be a blessing, not a burden.' There are those who might 
hesitate to address you, Loise, — you, the child of wealth ; 
but, all penniless as I am, I view the subject far differently. 
The human heart woos the human heart. I offer you a love 
as deep and holy as ever man bore to woman ; — no sudden 
outbreak of passion, no new-born affection ; as I have loved 
the child-sister of Edward Crayton, only with a deeper affec- 
tion do I now regard you." 

There was nothing of arrogance in his manner ; he spoke 
with the frank dignity of honorable manhood, and with child- 
like confidence the girl listened, reverencing him when he 
ceased. The crimson flower woven in her hair was placed on 
the crayon's moss-frame, as the only fitting shrine for the relic 
of that hour, — the flower which had been consecrated by the 
benediction of his affection. 

" It is not well to love as Edward loves," she had whis- 
pered to herself. " It is not well." But brother and sister 
were alike. Loise loved Dorrance with a love no less fervent 
than Edward Cray ton's for Annie Duncan. 



THE CRAYON. 267 



CHAPTER III. 

*' Woe for those who trample o'er a mind ! — 
A deathless thing ! They know not what they do, 
Or what they deal with. Man perchance may bind 
The flower his touch has bruised, may light anew 
The torch he quenched. 

But for the soul ! — 0, tremble and beware 
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there / " 

More tlian two years have sped since the departure of 
Edward Crayton from "Woodland Cottage. The cottage is 
now closed and desolate ; no longer gay voice or melodious 
song echoes the music of forest bird. The winter succeeding 
his departure, Loise joined her father in a gay city, on his 
return. 

The first summer Loise had stolen away from the gayeties 
of her new home, to the old familiar spot where the crayon 
semblance of Dorrance Sullivan hung on the chamber walls ; 
but the second summer only the figure of the old housekeeper 
wandered from room to room. A shadow has fallen on the 
heart of Loise ; it grows ever darker and more palpable. It 
was the first cloud of life, and it rested heavily on the buoyant 
heart of girlhood. 

Edward Crayton's letters home were now filled with his 
ardent longing to return. A deep yearning had come upon 
him to look upon the loved ones once more. The eternal 
sunshine of the south was enervating him ; he wrote that he 
required the more bracing home atmosphere. A picture 
was glowing on his canvas, which needed but a few more 
touches. 

The father's cheek paled even while his lip smiled; for 
he trembled lest it was the lassitude of deadly disease which 
oppressed his son, and awoke intense home yearnings in his 
breast. 

The day of the wanderer's return at length came, — a clear, 



268 . THE CRAYON. 

bright day in early December. The wind swept up with a 
fierce whisper from the ice-crusted bay ; but no inmate of the 
sumptuous residence of Mr. Crayton dreamed of winter winds, 
as they wandered through the thickly-carpeted chambers, 
meeting at every turn a sweeter breath from the rifled con- 
tents of green-house and conservatory, a brighter flood of sun- 
shine mellowed in its passage through silken draperies. A 
lonof residence abroad had rendered the master of the house 

o 

familiar with luxury ; and nothing that taste or comfort could 
devise was wanting there. 

The air was heated to an unusual degree, and the flowers 
poured forth a richer incense. Everything that might cheat 
the senses into a belief that summer, not winter, was with 
them, had been devised for the coming of Edward Crayton. 

His betrothed bride was in his father's house, in the full 
charm of her exceeding loveliness, to greet him on his arrival. 
But, like a restless spirit, Mr. Crayton wandered from room 
to room. Could it be excess of emotion in anticipation of the 
coming of that beloved son ? "Was it but to hide his parental 
weakness that he would spring up restlessly from his chair, 
to issue some new orders, and glance around with that almost 
defiant scowl ? That again would cause an unwonted languor 
to bow his stately form, while his cheek would grow almost 
as white as the cambric handkerchief with which he wiped big 
drops of perspiration from his forehead. 

All at once there stole upon his ear the music of a woman's 
voice. It was very melodious, but indescribably spirited and 
haughty. She was singing an air from some Italian opera, 
and the rich notes of a harp mingled with her voice. He 
raised his head, brushed back his dark hair, woven with many 
a silver thread, and advanced in the direction of the sounds. 
The carpet was too thick to betray his footstep, and the open- 
ing door gave no token of his presence. 

It was a spacious room, with arched ceiling, and tall win- 
dows opening into the conservatory. You could see the 



THE CRAYON. 

orange-tree laden with fruit, and the dark, glossy leaves of 
the myrtle, mingling with the snowy blossoms of a cape-jessa- 
mine, through the draping lace. The room was full of the 
perfume of flowers, and the wonted notes of the imprisoned 
birds in the conservatory were now hushed to listen. 

A girl was bending over a harp, her graceful form and 
beautiful face mirrored in the glass before her ; and it was 
upon that face Mr. Crayton fixed his gaze. Every feature 
was perfect. The complexion was dark, but clear, with a 
crimson glow on the cheek, and the rich lashes sweeping over 
eyes which it was dangerous to look upon in all their bril- 
liancy. But the small head was set with a haughty grace 
on the full, voluptuous bust ; and the curl of the red lip 
detracted something from its charm to the eye of the minute 
observer. 

She was alone, but for the unknown presence of Mr. Cray- 
ton, and a beautiful greyhound sitting by her side, with its 
watchful eyes on her face. Suddenly she bent down, while 
the hand that swept the strings before her fell with a caress- 
ing gesture on the dog's head. It sprang into her lap with 
a low whine of joy, while she wound her arms about it, kiss- 
ing it fondly as she would have caressed a human being. It 
had been Edward Crayton's gift ; and the gazer's lip lost its 
indecision, there came to his face an expression of indomitable 
will. He closed the door, departing noiselessly as he had 
entered, and passed on to the drawing-room. That was the 
only room in the house not filled with sunshine, it being on 
the north side of the house, and closed and deserted, while 
the fierce winter wind beat hard against the outer wall. He 
placed his hand upon his heart, as though he would press 
down all tenderness rising there in entreaty for her who was 
to suffer ; but he never once faltered, though he knew his 
errand to that dark, silent room was full of grief and sin. 
With folded arms, and resolute, compressed countenance, he 
sat watching the coming of her whom he had summoned to his 
23-^ 



270 THE CRAYON. 

presence, that he might mar the beautiful creation of nature, 
— lay in ruins the altar on which his child had deposited the 
priceless treasure of her affections. 

And she came, with a flood of sunshine from the outer room 
floating about her, as she paused on the threshold, looking in. 

She had been sitting in her chamber, when he sent for her, 
before an open desk, with a closely-written letter upon it. 
Her arms were folded in dreary revery. The dark eyes had 
lost something of their old serenity ; life was not to her the 
same gay dream of happiness which had been meted to her 
childhood. The beloved one was far off, toiling resolutely, 
but slowly, through all life's obstacles, for the attainment of 
a blessed future. 

In Loise's heart there was a deep yearning for home affec- 
tion, an eager longing to meet the daily glance of love. 
Friends and fortune smiled upon her, but the one boon she 
craved was denied. In her father's house another than her- 
self was paramount. That she could have borne, had it not 
been for the knowledge that not one tenth part of the affection 
lavished on Edward was given her. Her Either regarded her, 
as man often does woman, but as one who owed passive obe- 
dience to his will, — an obedience which his care for her mate- 
rial comfort should recompense. 

But now, as Mr. Crayton bent down and kissed the cheek 
of her whom he drew to his side, there was an expression of 
intense joy and gratification visible on her face, as though the 
treasure which she had long coveted was at last obtained ; 
though it soon gave way, as she listened to his words, to be- 
wilderment and amaze. 

As his meaning became more clear, and she began to com- 
prehend the drift of his speech, she started up, wound her 
arms about him, and pleaded with him, in sad, passionate 
words, to cease. Then he put her back and turned away, 
pacing the apartment for a moment ere he again paused 



THE CRAYON. 271 

before her. She did not look up, but shuddered and turned 
aside her head ; and once more he spoke. 

After a long time she arose and left his presence. The 
light step had lost its buoyancy ; and the sunlight, as she stood 
again in the open hall, gleamed over a wan, white face. 
There was an unusual stir, and, by the murmur of eager 
voices, she knew that her brother had come ; but she did not 
spring forward at once to greet him : she turned away and 
entered another room, that she might for a time avoid his 
presence. But he was there before her, his arm about his 
betrothed. They did not notice her ; and, as Loise stood look- 
ing upon Edward Crayton, the wild expression settled down 
into a look of mournful resignation. His heavily-furred 
cloak was folded about him, so that one could not perceive 
how slight had become that form ; but the emaciation of the 
cheek was perceptible even through its crimson flush, and a 
hard, ringing cough broke in upon his whispered words of 
joy when he folded her in his arms. 

Yet he declared himself well, but for a slight cold taken 
during the voyage ; and they were only too eager to believe 
him. The day past, the evening came, and in its gayeties 
Edward roused himself to exertion, holding his friends spell- 
bound by the magic of his happiness, as he hung over Annie 
Duncan ; and Loise turned away from the beseeching eyes 
of her father fixed upon her despairingly, as though she alone 
had power to save. All day the letter lying on her desk had 
been suffered to remain untouched ; but, as the evening wore 
on, she arose, and, going up to her room, placed it in the flame 
of the lamp. It burnt slowly, for it was thickly folded ; 
and all the while the expression on her face grew more hope- 
less. Then she opened her desk, and took from thence a pack- 
age of letters. Once she half-raised them to her lips, but 
checked herself, and hastily left the room. The wind sighed 
mournfully in its passage through the hall ; but it was the 
dreary blast of despair sweeping through her heart that made 



272 THE CRAYON. 

her shudder and tremble when she placed that little package 
in her father's hand. He folded her in his arms ; he blessed 
her for her obedience ; but the caress and the blessing were 
only a mockery to her then. 

The warm firelight shed a ruddy glow over the group 
gathered in the cheerful parlor of Dorrance Sullivan's home, 
waiting his coming. It was a cold, stormy night ; but the 
voice of his young sister, whiling away the interval with song 
and music, drowned the murmur of the wind. The tea-table 
was spread, and his boy-brother sat with wistful eyes bent 
upon the door, while scarce his mother's gentle voice could 
quell a more boisterous ebullition of joy. After a while there 
came an opening of the hall-door, then Dorrance's voice fell 
upon their ear, and all rose up eagerly to greet him. He 
came, his hair damp with the falling rain, but with beaming 
eye and smile-wreathed lips, pausing in the open door before 
them. Tidings had reached them, ere he came, of the subtle 
eloquence which had borne all before it when he opened his first 
case that day at the bar ; and, triumphant as was his success, 
the attempt was one at which older heads thai^ his own might 
have hesitated. And now, as he stood, in the bosom of his 
family, beside his widowed mother and the loved ones in whose 
care he should be her counsellor and support, years of past 
labor were nothing, — all was repaid. 'A calm, deep sense of 
happiness was his, a bright dream of the future, as his thoughts 
wandered to one yet dearer than all. With eyes dim with 
emotion, and throbbing heart, he passed on to the little study 
where he had toiled long for that day's success. The door 
closed upon him ; the hour wore on, and he came not forth ; 
his mother rose up and went in search of him. He heard 
her not, as she entered ; he gazed upon her as on vacancy. 
The manly cheek was but little paler than its wont ; but the 
light of those eyes was quenched in tears, though they were 
not sufi'ered to roll over his cheek. 

When he noticed the gentle face looking upon him, he brushed 



THE CRAYON. 273 

together the scattered letters before him, looking up with a 
vain effort at a smile ; but the mother put her arm tenderly 
around him, saying, " If sorrow has laid its heavy hand upon 
you, open your heart to your mother, my son ; she will com- 
fort you." 

He bent his head, and kissed affectionately the hand that 
lay upon his arm, but said nothing — neither did he attempt 
to smile again, for he was sick at heart, sick almost unto 
death. The broad chest stirred more than once convulsively 
during the evening ; but he joined the family circle quietly, 
almost calmly, as was his wont. 

But when the silent midnight came, and he was alone once 
more, his glance resting on his letters to Loise Crayton, all 
returned, with a brief, cold rejection of his love, then he laid 
his face upon the table before him, while hope and joy passed 
out from his heart, leaving him lone and desolate in his early 
manhood. The dream of years was at an end. Dorrance 
Sullivan, in the early day, folded the curtain over the sketch 
which Edward had given him, and which alone had witnessed 
his anguish ; and, girding up his strength for the contest be- 
tween the past and the future, went forth into the world to 
fulfil the part allotted to him on earth, though the sun-light 
had been forever stricken from his path. No human being 
might ever know the sudden bursts of anguish which swept 
over his heart whenever that veil was withdrawn, and he 
looked upon that picture. The memory of Loise he strove to 
cherish as that of one who had been lost in youth's purity ; 
he mourned over the once guileless spirit, debased by the 
world's contact. But he became not bitter against that 
world ; he was no lone misanthropist ; rather he sought to 
enlighten society, to purify and refine it, that other hearts 
might not be wrecked like his own. He silenced the voice 
of the tempter, which bade him revile his fellow-beings for 
the perfidy of one, and met sorrow with the resignation 
of a Christian, the courage of a brave and honorable man. 



274 THE CRAYON. 

CHAPTER IV. 

" On thy parted lips there 's a quivering thrill. 

As on a lyre ere its chords are still ! " 
«< Woe ! for the wealth so dearly bought ! " 

There was a magnificent temple thrown open to a brilliant 
crowd ; — a flashing of jewels ; a rustling of silken robes ; a 
deep, thrilling gush of music, swelling upwards to the vaulted 
ceiling, and filling each pillared recess with its rich melody, as 
a bridal party swept up the stately aisle, and knelt before the 
altar consecrated to the Almighty, but which they were, that 
dark winter night, to desecrate by the sacrifice of youth to 
age, — to barter the pure, fresh heart of girlhood, for the 
old man's gold. But with passive resignation stood erect the 
graceful figure, its symmetrical proportions discernible through 
the sweeping folds of lace and satin, and the bride's cheek 
blushed not beneath her costly veil ; eye, lip and cheek, were 
statuesque in their expression, until the words were spoken 
which gave her to the man by her side. Then over her face 
there flitted a deep, hot glow, an expression of bitter self- 
scorn ; and she trembled and pressed her hand on her throb- 
bing heart, striving vainly for that forgetfulness which came 
not at her bidding. And to the echoing music the mocking 
pageant swept on, amid congratulations and beaming smiles ; 
for bright, genial spring was wedded to cold, austere winter. 

Days, weeks passed by, and the bride sat in the gorgeous 
loneliness of her new home, weeping not over lost happiness, 
— for tears and repinings were not for her, — but striving to 
silence tho never-ceasing voice of memory, speaking of the 
past, while she coldly, calmly, received the adulation of 
society. 

The beautiful residence which had become her home was 
in the suburbs of the city, and her carriage might be seen, 
in the sunniest hours of the day, driving rapidly through its 
streets ; and at times, although rarely, an elderly gentleman 



THE CRAYON. 275 

sat by her side, with silvery hair, but of erect and somewhat 
stately presence ; and always, when he accompanied his 
young wife, his blue eyes beamed with gentle tenderness upon 
her, and he bore with her coldness as a father with a way- 
ward child. But she often strove to cast aside, in his pres- 
ence, the dark shadow which appeared to have wrapped 
itself close about her, chilling her with its gloom. 

Many a wondering, questioning glance followed Mr. Man- 
son and the beautiful young creature he had won to be his 
wife ; but only that silent drawing-room, the torturer and 
the tortured who had sat therein, knew that it was to replace, 
for the father's idol, the wealth that was gone in mad specu- 
lations, that she had yielded herself as the sacrifice. 

But when he accompanied her home, he never entered 
with her the beautiful octagon room appropriated to Edward, 
Avho worked hard, day after day, on the lovely picture, which 
was robbing even Annie Duncan, in a measure, of his atten- 
tion ; but it was his wont to join Mr. Crayton in the library 
when Loise sought her brother's studio with an evident 
desire to shun his companionship. 

One morning Annie Duncan and Loise sat therein in 
earnest conversation ; but the glance of the sister rested upon 
her brother. The marked alteration apparent in him had 
struck her with vivid forcibleness ; and when, with sudden 
weariness, he leant back in his chair with closed eyes, she 
would have approached him, but the words which Annie Dun- 
can was speaking arrested her attention. 

" It is a novel and silly fancy which has taken possession 
of our friend. Miss Maynard. I cannot understand how one 
used, as she has been, to luxury, can thus court poverty in 
marrying her penniless lover." 

"Do you not think, Annie, that you would make a like 
sacrifice, were you called upon?" 

She forgot Edward ; there was a wild earnestness in her 
glance. A terror came over her, lest Annie Duncan should 



276 THE CRAYON. 

reply in the affirmative, and the sacrifice which she had made 
appear of less value to him ; and when the girl shook her 
head almost scornfully, answering " never," she breathed a 
low, faint sigh of relief, and once more turned her attention 
to Edward ; but he was bowed over his easel, his countenance 
hid. 

After that morning there was more resignation in the 
glance of Loise ; there was yet a joy for her in the joy of 
others. 

At length, one clear, bracing morning, late in February, 
when the wind swept hoarsely up the icy streets, folding her 
furred mantle very close about her, Loise passed up the broad 
marble steps, and entered her father's house. Her step was 
slow, her cheek pale. She had been asking herself, could 
not the smile of happiness on her brother's lip, the deeper 
glow of beauty on the face of Annie Duncan, when he spoke 
of the bridal close at hand, reconcile and strengthen her to 
bear patiently the burden which, for their sake, she had 
accepted; but the memory of a broken faith whispered, 
" Never ! " 

That day, when her father met her with a cordial wel- 
come, for which she once would have blessed him, she trem- 
bled and shrank aside, as a meteor-like thought swept through 
her brain. Although she bade it depart, again it flashed bitter 
and poignant athwart her when she paused on the threshold 
of Edward's studio, and looked upon the radiant face of his 
betrothed. Sorrow and care had forborne to trace one line 
on those fair features ; life to her was bright as the sunshine 
falling over her as she read. All around was peace and 
gladness, — Loise alone stricken and sad. What wonder, then, 
that the vague floating thought shaped itself in the soul of 
that life-weary one into a stern, dark query. Why am I thus 
unhappy? why laden so heavily? "Annie, Annie!" she 
whispered to herself, "have you not sinned even as I? — 
where is Heaven's justice ? " 



THE CRAYON. 277 

The dark eyes were filled with a strange, defiant expres- 
sion, the red lips tightly compressed, at the dark, atheistical 
questioning. But neither mortal voice nor her own con- 
science was to answer her : only the white face, that lay so 
still and quiet, pillowed on the crimson cushions of the chair, 
and the golden light falling over the canvas before him, war- 
ring with its warmth and brightness against the cold shadow 
of Death. 

And Loise gazed not on the angelic face of the child rest- 
ing on the ooy's shoulder, the little figure nestling to his 
bosom ; but on the thin, white face, with its drooping lids 
and parted lips, while the glow of passion faded, the wild 
look changed to an expression of silent, hopeless grief. 

There was something in the hushed breath, the perfect 
silence, that attracted the attention of Annie Duncan. She 
looked up from her book, glancing towards Edward. He 
slept. Then her eye wandered to the little, rigid figure 
standing in the doorway ; she, too, was looking that way 
with a strange expression. Then she arose, and went to him ; 
with a slight pallor of the cheek, she laid her hand upon his 
shoulder. 

" Edward ! Edward ! " she said, in a sharp, frightened 
voice. Then there came a cry of bitter fear and agony, and 
Annie Duncan sank down slowly, shudderingly, upon the car- 
pet, like one bereft of life. But the mute watcher sprang to 
his side, and, winding her arms about him, kissed him pas- 
sionately, murmuring, all the while, " God pardon me, — I 
knew not what I said ! " 

But no imploring prayer, no grief, however wild, could 
wake him more, — the dreaming artist slept the pulseless 
sleep of death ! 

The last touch had been given the beautiful painting before 

him — the last poetical conception had been transferred to 

the canvas. In the glorious sunshine, and in the presence of 

Annie Duncan, with the same serene smile on his lip which 

24 



278 THE CRAYON. 

he had worn in life, Edward Crayton went home to his 
Father in heaven ; and the sacrifice which had been offered 
was valueless — as like sacrifices ever have been, and ever 
will be. 

Not only the death of her brother answered Loise, when, 
in the wild rebellion of the moment, religion took wing and 
her soul grew dark within her, but the remorse-stricken 
glance of the father, when he turned from the dead ; and his 
child shrank shivering from his presence. 

And Loise knew also that she had sinned, when love of 
earthly ones had won her to become faithless in Grod's eyes. 
She had failed to remember the precept. Do not evil that 
good may come of it ; and although her own heart bled 
at the sacrifice, it extenuated not sin in uttering false vows 
at God's altar. Upas-like, the one sin poisoned all else. 

With Annie Duncan she wept over her brother's death, 
while no bitterness mingled in her tears for the dead. Be- 
reavement we can endure, though it leave us lone and des- 
olate on earth. Heaven-sent trials soften and humble our 
spirits only when the human heart creates its own misery, 
and we realize that we have in a measure made our own woe. 

Loise Manson's task was to expiate where she had erred. 
Most grievously had she sinned when she hearkened to the 
voice that tempted her, — for, though it was a father's voice, 
another yet more imperative was whispering her — the 
voice of conscience, — most grievously, when she gave her- 
self to another, with the memory of Dorrance Sullivan lin- 
gering in her heart ; and grievously must the erring atone. 

There was a fierce, long struggle, in the young wife's 
bosom, between all the natural goodness of her heart and the 
dark spirit roused into being. The gentle emotions of the 
past might have triumphed ; but once, only once (and Loise 
Manson craved of fate the one boon that it might not again 
occur) she again met Dorrance Sullivan. It was years after 
her brother's death, and there were many present. Time had 



THE CRAYON. . 279 

wrought little change in the girlish face and form ; there was 
only a line of care about the sweet mouth, a slight drooping 
of the lids over the soft eyes, as though an habitual weariness 
oppressed her. 

But that night her cheek was paler than its wont, and the 
little jewelled hand resting upon her husband's arm was cold 
with emotion ; for she knew that he was present, and that the 
crowd alone hid him from her view. 

There was a murmuring of gay voices, soft laughter, and 
music was swelling through the lighted rooms with a long- 
continued burst of melody ; but she heeded it not, for he was 
standing before her. One step she advanced; the words 
" Pardon me, Dorrance; I wronged you not wilfully," trem- 
bled on her lip ; but his eyes wandered from her, where they 
had rested with the softened glance of other days, to the old 
man by her side, and back again, not to the agitated face, 
but to the costly folds of her robe sweeping almost to his 
side, with a glance of calm rebuke. 

There was nothing bitter or ironical in the glance of Dor- 
rance Sullivan ; but the cheek so lately pallid with emotion 
flushed to the deepest crimson, and she passed onward, more 
bitterly humbled and rebuked than had all the many present 
scorned her whom they greeted with flattering words and 
smiles ; for Loise was the beautiful wife of the rich old man, 
and the sacrifice which honor and goodness contemn society 
welcomed with its luring smile. 

Fashion made her its idol, and worshipped her. Once 
more smiles wreathed her lip, and her eyes lost their sadness. 
But the smile was not like that of other days ; it contrasted 
strangely with the deep-woven line of care about the beautiful 
mouth. It was fleeting and evanescent, lingering only in the 
gay saloon, leaving her lip cold, her young face gloomy, when 
there was none but her husband present in their lone home. 

She shunned that solitude which she had once loved, that 
the gay voice of the crowd might drown the low pleadings of 



280 THE CRAYON. 

conscience, wooing her to forgetfulness of the serpent pride 
stinging her into unrest. Even in the old man's presence she 
had become petulant ; but he bore with her gently, as he 
would have borne with a wayward child, for he had long 
known that it was his gold that won her to become his wife, 
and he upbraided himself for the part which he had taken. 

But there was one lone and desolate in his luxurious home, 
w^ere the low, sobbing voice that had answered him years 
before in that shadowy drawing-room was ever echoing on his 
ear ; and rarely he looked on the beautiful painting which his 
dead son had left without burying his face in his hands, while 
tears stole through his clasped fingers, falling like rain upon 
the carpet. 

But it was not the memory of the dead painter that wrung 
from the father's heart those falling tears ; but the contrast 
between the pure, angelic face on the canvas, and that of the 
cold, beautiful woman of the world, so like, even with the 
shadow of ill-spent years now seen on her brow. 

But the rough sketch of that beautiful painting, which 
hangs on the wall of Dorrance Sullivan's study, finds no 
gazer ; for the veil has never once been lifted since the jewel- 
decked wife of Edward Manson swept up that stately saloon, 
while a silvery laugh broke from the lips which were seem- 
ingly mocking the faith that was broken. 



CHAPTER V. 



*' But calm tliee ! let the thought of death 
A solemn calm restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon 
Would speak to thee once more.'* 

It was a glorious summer's night, with a clear, starry sky, 
and whispering breeze, silent, but for the city's voice, low 
murmuring in the distance, and the whip-poor-will's plaintive 



THE CRAYON. 281 

note mingling with the night-hawk's screech in the woods 
skirting the broad grounds of the Mansons. 

But lights were flitting to and fro through the house, as the 
servants, in their fear and excitement, wandered from room 
to room. Then the silence was broken by the roll of wheels 
and the tramping of horses, as a carriage drove up to the 
hall-door, while a woman sprang out, never waiting, as was 
her wont, for the tall footman behind. 

One bound up the marble steps, and the light from the 
hall-lamp fell upon a graceful figure, with floating draperies 
of costly lace and glistening satin, jewels woven in the dark 
hair braided above a white brow, and whiter cheek and lip ; 
for the ashen hue of fear and dread was there. 

With a step tremulous, but hurried, so unlike her usual 
haughty bearing that all drew back in pity, she passed 
through the hall, up the broad stairway, into the chamber 
where the old man was wrestling with his gigantic antagonist, 
Death ; who, with sure, stern hand, was rending, one by one, 
the links which bound him to earth. Summoned from the 
festive hall, where the dance was gay, the music loud, to the 
couch of the dying, stood Loise, the young wife, looking down 
upon her partner, awe-stricken, utterly subdued. The silver 
hair, damp with suffering, lay in moistened masses upon the 
pillow, and the pale face was cold and still as marble. A 
slight, restless motion stirred the silken counterpane, and it 
fell in long crimson billows over the late erect and vigorous 
old man, sinking into dreamless rest. 

" Loise," he said, in faint and broken accents, " God bless 
and protect you ! Pardon me, Loise, and forget me ! " And 
as he spoke she bowed her head upon the pillow, and wept. 

"When she once more looked up she was free; the bond 

was broken, — the bond by her so hated. But the joyous 

sense of freedom came not upon her there ; not when she laid 

her hand upon the pulseless one by her side, and shivered at 

24^ 



282 THE CRAYON. 

its contact, with that strange, mysterious awe the living ever 
experience in the presence of death. 

" Edward ! " she said, sorrowfully and slowly, bending down 
and touching, for the first time, without remorse, those pallid 
lips, — for now it was no 4alse caress. All his gentleness 
and forbearance with her own coldness and waywardness 
came over her ; and, loving him in death as she could not in 
life, she turned away sorrowing and repentant. 

But when the deep gloom of midnight gave way to the 
dim shadows and first gray light of early day, — when all was 
silent, and all slept, but the widowed one, — she was pacing to 
and fro her chamber with rapid steps, while the breath came 
quicker to her lip, and the delicate cheek glowed and burned, 
as wild thoughts swept, phantom-like, through her brain. The 
jewels of her yesterday's toilet were strewn upon the dressing- 
table, the costly gems flashing in the lamp-light. 

" Mine, all mine ! " she whispered, as she paused beside 
them. "Mine, all mine!" she repeated, as she gathered 
back the curtain and gazed from the casement, while a smile 
of radiant exultation flitted over the beautiful face. " And 
thou, thou, Dorrance, thine again ! " while, faint with emotion, 
as she gave utterance to the passionate hope, she leaned far 
out, and looked down into the valley beneath. 

A silver mist lay on the hills, and floated over the blue 
waters of the lake ; the birds twittered in the woods, and the 
flowers nodded sleepily beneath their coronets of sparkling 
dew. There was a freshness, a purity, in that early morning 
hour, which subdued the wild, passionate heart of that young 
creature, always so susceptible to the loveliness of nature. 
The glow faded from her cheek, the feverish light from her 
eye ; she bowed her head upon the sill of the open window, 
and wept. All the soft, sweet emotions of her early girlhood 
came over her ; she ceased to remember, but as a troubled 
dream, the years which had intervened since she had knelt in 
earnest prayer beside the low couch in her cottage chamber, 



THE CRAYON. 283 

where the crayon's moss-frame gleamed out in the moonlight 
from the wall. Again she was a joyous girl, with Dorrance 
Sullivan by her side ; radiant with bright hopes, gazing upon 
her flower-woven hair, mirrored in the little stream before 
her, while his hand yet lingered amid the white lilies and 
crimson buds which he had braided there. Then followed 
the memory of her subsequent grief, when the storm-clouds 
gathered, and broke at last, deluging her whole existence with 
the bitter waters of hopeless despair, while all that was bright 
and fair in her heart withered and shrunk away in a passion 
of wild pride and stormy rebellion against her destiny, — a 
destiny which she had herself, in a measure, made. 

But now the tempest was over, the sunshine came out 
radiant from the departing clouds, and not even the shadow 
of death which lay on the young wife's heart could veil its 
hopefulness. Vain and futile were all efforts to forget the 
crayon on the chamber wall ; it smiled upon her even when 
she would have wept for the old man's death, and in her 
secret exultation there mingled a scorn of her own heart. 
She had warred, in her pride, against her better nature; and, 
although now, as the dark cross vanished, much of her early 
faith came back, the shadow of the past still lay on the present, 
and might never wholly fade. Once she had erred. Memory 
was faithful to the past ; it would ever recall it, — vain, 
utterly vain was it to seek to forget it. 

She was more beautiful in her matured loveliness than 
when she first blushed beneath Dorrance Sullivan's glance. 
Yet although stately home, broad lands, and princely wealth, 
were now her own, the shadow of sin lay upon the heart of 
womanhood, and veiled even her deep, unchanging love for 
himself. Will he seek her now ? Long afterwards the ques- 
tion which hope put to love was answered, but not in words. 
Loise herself read what no tongue ever framed into words 
when she first met the beloved of her girlhood. 

With a voice sweet and low as ever greeted him at Wood- 



284 THE CRAYON. 

land Cottage, and as sincere in its affection, she told him how 
terrible had been her sacrifice ; and he thanked her for that 
frankness which robbed the memory of her youth of all bit- 
terness, when he learnt that not lightly had he been rejected, 
but he spoke of Loise Crayton as of one between whom and 
the widow of Edward Manson there existed no connection. 

He forgave her his past hours of sorrow and loneliness, 
and again turned calmly back to life and its duties. 

Once more Woodland Cottage was inhabited ; but its beau- 
tiful mistress sought not its solitude to mourn over the deso- 
lation of her life. The long lingering spirit of rebellious 
pride had passed out from her breast when she stood in the 
noble, benignant presence of Dorrance Sullivan, and, forgiv- 
ing, he blessed her. She strove to strengthen her heart to its 
duty. Sorrowing alone over her own weakness, once more 
she knelt beside the low couch in her cottage chamber, while 
peace came back to her restless soul, hope to her desolate 
breast — no hope of earthly joy, but that which the Father 
of mercies, watching over his penitent child, would reward. 
The wealth, so dearly earned, was lavished on the destitute 
and the suffering, the echo of whose prayers fell with hal- 
lowed import on the ear of Dorrance Sullivan ; and he would 
smile on the angel face of the child in the sketch, and count 
another link woven between himself and the spirit parted 
from him only on earth. 

And still the smile on the crayon's lip gleams sunnily over 
the darkest hour of Loise Manson's life. 



LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 



No light — a glory filled the room ; 
No light — I saw a roseate bloom ; 
And angels heard my voiceless prayer 
That the sweet glow might linger there. 

I knew two hearts beat side by side 
Amid those shades of even-tide ; 
That the soft glance I found upraised 
Had not been lifted for my gaze. 

I knew that tress of waving hair, 
Gathered away with sudden care, 
Had been unloosed by love's own hand 
From the smooth foldings of its band. 

As ray faint tread the silence stirred, 
In low, half-whispered tones, I heard : 
" We have no light, and night is near.' 
But I found light serene and clear. 



ANNIE RUTLIDGE; 

OR, REMINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 



*• Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping, 
Through the night hours, o'er wasted health to pine; 
Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves heaping. 
In the shut heart at once a tomb and shrine." 

I HAVE a story, dear reader, of mingled joy and sorrow, to 
relate to you ; and if it come not to your ear in musical 
language, judge not too critically, I beseech thee, my aman- 
uensis. 

Full well I remember the day, although many years have 
since intervened, when I was first unclosed in the drawing- 
room of Mr. Hugh Rutlidge, in the city of New York. Until 
that period, with a number of other pianos, I had inhabited 
a music saloon on Broadway ; where I was the acknowledged 
beauty of all pianodom, whom the white fingers of young 
lady visitors loved to caress, and gray-haired professors of 
music lingered near. But, at last, one bright autumn morn- 
ing, as Ruth Chivis, one of the most beautiful girls in the 
city, and then at the height of her belledom, sat before me, 
winning me from my silence to discourse to her in rich bursts 
of music, while the group of admirers hanging around her 
murmured their praise, I suddenly felt the jewelled fingers 
tremble and grow cold, while the color on the cheek of the 
lovely brunette deepened to a crimson glow, as the voice of 
Hugh Rutlidge fell upon her ear. Yet, though she trembled 
and blushed with such wild agitation at first, the succeeding 



ANNIE RUTLIDGE; OR, REMINISCENCES OP A PIANO. 287 

moment she arose with quiet hauteur, while no gleam of pas- 
sion in the woman's eyes spoke of the lightning-like flash of 
love and anguish ; and the voice which answered the gentle- 
man's courteous greeting trembled not, although struggling 
through its coldness was a tone of sadness contrasting mourn- 
fully with the light words on her lip. 

She smiled brightly, chatted gayly, and more than once 
she laughed a joyous, merry laugh ; but, for all that, there 
stole an occasional dimness over the eyes which neither shunned 
nor drooped beneath his glance, and there was a hollow and 
constrained note in the silvery laugh perceptible to himself 
alone. But with words of cold reason he silenced the voice of 
all that was honorable or generous, pleading in his breast for 
the young creature over whose glad spirit of youth he had cast 
the dark mantle of sorrow. There was a thrill at his heart when 
Ruth Chi vis was present — a thrill of delicious emotion when 
the graceful figure raised itself haughtily erect by his side ; for 
imprisoned affection for him looked out through all the blended 
pride and scorn of those eyes. Sweet to the innate selfishness 
of the man's being was the conviction that she whom he loved 
loved on in despite of despair and shame, while he left her 
for the young heiress for whose coming even then he was pre- 
paring. His betrothed was an amateur in music ; and this 
very morning on which he met Ruth Chivis in the music 
saloon, he was in quest of a superior instrument for her use. 
There were few who played or sang with greater skill than 
Ruth Chivis ; but when the group clustered around proposed 
that she should try my powers for Hugh Rutlidge, then for 
the first time his cheek flushed, and he turned aside in evident 
embarrassment. A brilliant prelude, and the voice which 
mingled its music with my notes recalled him. Never richer 
tones rang out on listener's ear than on Hugh Rutlidge's, as, 
fascinated, he stood powerless to turn aside from the eloquent 
eyes fixed on his, gathering, as it were, inspiration in the 
triumph of the moment, as she won him back to an Tidor- 
ing glance, but to scorn the homage she won. 



288 ANNIE RUTLIDGE ; OR, 

" Will it answer Mrs. Hugh Rutlidge ? " she questioned, 
ere the echo of the music had ceased to reverberate through 
the saloon, in a voice very calm, and with a glance so tranquil 
that his brow clouded ; for, in the utter selfishness of his 
heart, he could not bear to look upon her thus unmoved. 

And now he who had deceived was duped in return ; for 
I alone beheld the slight convulsion passing over the beautiful 
face, as she turned away her head, that no eye might look upon 
her. 0, beautiful and worshipped, but unhappy one, with no 
gold to buy thee faith, how I longed to murmur a soft note 
of sympathy! How I shuddered and wailed beneath the 
hand of Hugh Rutlidge, when in gloomy thought he sank 
down by my side when thou wert gone ; and I knew that the 
memory of you was with him when he ordered me sent to the 
home which was to receive his future wife ! 

I had been there many days, in hourly expectation of the 
coming of Mrs. Rutlidge, when, one morning, Pompey, a tall 
servant in livery, came into the drawing-room where I was 
installed in a pillared alcove, and, lifting the cover of em- 
bossed velvet falling about me in costly folds, prepared 
me for the appearance of his mistress. Always afterward, 
from that morning hour usually until near midnight, that 
luxurious drawing-room was open to my observation, as well 
as the exquisite boudoir facing me. 

Nearly an hour intervened between the appearance of 
Pompey and the entrance of Mrs. Hugh Rutlidge, while, in 
the interval, I beheld the carpet with gay-hued flowers, rose- 
wood couches, and costly draperies of silk and lace. Beautiful 
paintings looked down from rich frames on rare statuary ; 
but the shadowy light of the room, its silence, its absence of 
all life and sunshine, chilled me. I loved the bright sunlight, 
and longed to behold all around me flooded with its warmth 
and beauty. In the whole house I heard no human voice 
ringing out soft tones, notes of light-hearted gladness. 

Presently a little, graceful figure stood on the threshold of 



REMINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 289 

the door, looking in. I did not notice the gentleman by its 
side ; I was glancing at the fair white face, with a faint, 
rose-like glow on the cheek, the great dark eyes full of sun- 
shine. 

" It is a pretty place, but too dark and cold to sing in, 
Hugh," she said, in a sweet, girlish voice, looking up with a 
loving smile to the handsome face of Hugh Kutlidge. He 
patted, with a caressing gesture, the fair cheek, and called her 
some musical Italian love-name. , She blushed girlishly, and 
drooped her long lashes, while he led her to the music-stool, 
sat down by her side, and murmured something about its 
being " time to forget childish ways, girlish manners." She 
looked up troubled and timid ; but his smile reassured her. 
Suddenly my heart throbbed and thrilled joyously ; for a soft 
hand caressed me, and I echoed back the lute-like voice float- 
ing, in the sweetest cadences of life and hope, into song. 

And, all the while his wife sang, Hugh Kutlidge sat with 
his face bowed down upon his clasped hands, apparently drink- 
ing in the music of her voice, but in reality deaf to all but 
memory's promptings, recalling the hour when last he sat 
beside me, and another's melted on his ear. 

" God help thee, young wife," I whispered to myself, " if 
thus early wander his thoughts from thee !" 

After a while, together they arose and went out. 

Towards noon the rooms began to fill with company, for the 
bride was at home that day. There were many earnest, 
curious glances bent upon her, for she was almost a stranger 
to all present; and at length, just as she was growing nervous 
and embarrassed under the attention which she attracted, Dr. 
Chivis and his daughter were announced. 

There was a momentary hush as on her father's arm Ruth 
Chivis passed up that crowded drawing-room, and was pre- 
sented to Mrs. Hugh Kutlidge. She was looking very ill; 
and I learned, from the whispers around, that she had been 
sick, sick almost unto death, since I had last beheld her. But 
25 



290 ANNIE EUTLIDGE ; OR, 

there was no sadness in the dark eyes, which had ^rowu 
brighter, darker than of old ; and the voice which welcomed 
the shy young thing clinging to her husband's arm was sweet, , 
almost tender, in its accents. Neither was there any negli- 
gence in her toilet, as though life were dark or dreary ; it was 
just as studiously graceful and attractive, her smile as soft, 
her words as gay ; and from that hour the world ceased to 
wound her by its suspicions, to whisper maliciously of her 
disappointment, when they marked her in the presence of Hugh 
Rutlidge's bride. 

She staid but a little while amidst them, for she frankly 
confessed herself not perfectly recovered from her late illness ; 
and her host himself led her to the door. I could see that 
she was paler than when she entered ; and, as she passed me, 
I saw that her lips were compressed as in pain. 

" Shall I sing to you, Hugh ? You look sad and weary." 
They had all gone, and the wife was looking tenderly 
towards her husband, glad once more to be alone with him. 

But he answered her, almost petulantly, "No; his head 
ached, he was weary, he would rest." 

Well was it for her happiness that the knowledge which 
was mine was denied to her ; well that she could never know 
that it was the memory of the forsaken one's touch 
which had consecrated me to him, leaving him loth to listen to 
music then ! 

Day after day she came to me in the drawing-room, but 
Hugh seldom accompanied her. After a while I fancied there 
was a more subdued expression on the face of the wife, and 
then Hugh came no more. 

Perhaps it was the presence of a winter of extreme severity 
that chilled the sunny daughter of the south ; a slight feel- 
ing of home-sickness, as the weeks wore away, and the 
memory of her desolate childhood's home came back to her 
when the first bewildering excitement of her bridal passed ; 



REMINISCENCES OP A PIANO. 291 

but, whatever it might have been, it had cast a shadow over 
the light heart. 

Often she came in when she had been away of an evening ; 
and then she would linger long and restlessly in the drawing- 
room, waiting her husband's coming. At first, when he found 
her there, she would greet him so tenderly and lovingly, that 
the angry light faded from his eye, the expression of annoy- 
ance from his countenance ; but when it was repeated, night 
after night, he grew impatient. 

At last, one cold winter night, just as the clock struck 
eleven, I heard the carriage as it drew up, and her voice in 
the hall questioning the servant whether Mr. Rutlidge had 
yet returned. When he answered in the negative, she came 
in. I know it was a cold night, for I could hear the wind 
murmuring hoarsely without, though it was warm as midsum- 
mer within. 

She went up close to the marble hearth, and stood before 
the huge grate with its glowing bed of anthracite, and held 
out her hands shudderingly ; for she was chilled even through 
the warm opera-cloak, with its furred lining. For a while she 
stood there, huddling her white arms in its folds, looking very 
weary, as though she had scarce strength to stand; the long, 
trailing robe of snowy satin wavering as its costly folds swept 
the marble of the hearth. 

As the hour wore on, she went over to the window looking 
down on the street, and, gathering back the curtain, gazed out 
on the deserted pave. Then she wheeled a large arm-chair to 
the hearth, and sat down, looking into the fire. In spite of 
herself her eyelids drooped ; then, to rouse herself, she began 
to sing a beautiful negro melody, which she had caught of the 
old negress who had been her nurse, and made her her idol ; 
and tears stole out as she sang, and lay damp on her cheek, 
with the memory of home at her heart. But, as the song 
died away, again the lashes drooped lower and lower, and she 
slept. At first her slumbers were restless ; but, after a while. 



292 ANNIE rutlidge; or, 

she slept the soft, quiet sleep of innocent girlhood, and I knew, 
by the smile on her lip shedding its radiance over her face, 
that the slumber that wrapped that night the senses of Annie 
Rutlidge was full of sunshine. 

The warm fire-light fell over her, while, falling back, her 
cloak displayed the delicate bust and uncovered arms, with 
the rich evening dress which she wore. Her head rested on 
the cushions of the chair, while the long, waving curls of 
brown hair swept back from the cheek, where her bright 
dreams of childhood and home had awakened a glow of 
beauty, though the drooping lashes were yet glittering with 
tears. 

The murmur of voices, the rolling of carriages in the street, 
had ceased ; — all was silent, the sleeper's low breathing alone 
audible ; and still he came not. The fire had burned low, 
the light was nearly extinguished, when the outer door opened, 
and a heavy step passed through the hall. Pausing before 
the half-open door of the drawing-room, the master of the 
house looked in, and his cheek was flushed with wine. When 
he caught a glimpse of the white drapery in the chair before 
the fire, he came forward. He did not pause when he beheld 
the sweet young face before him, but laid his hand upon her, 
and shook her roughly. 

" Why are you here again, Annie ? " he said, angrily. 

" You ! ah, is it you, dear Hugh ? " She did not notice 
his roughness, in her bewilderment. " How you frightened 
me ! see how I tremble ! " she continued, with a faint smile, 
putting her frail arm in his. 

But he drew back from its touch, with a hoarse word on 
his lip, which she did not understand, but which sounded very 
like a smothered oath. But only too plainly she compre- 
hended the rejection of the loving caress with which she 
would have greeted him, and drew back with a stifled sob on 
her lip, looking upon him with a sad, frightened gaze. And 
thus, for a moment, they stood eying each other j he dark 



KEMINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 293 

and stern, slie sad and wondering. Then she took up her 
cloak, and, folding it about her neck with a slight shudder, 
together they went out. 

The next morning, at a late hour, Hugh Rutlidge entered 
the drawing-room in his dressing-gown. He was alone ; and, 
taking up the morning paper, he sat down before the fire, and 
began to read. There was a slight pallor on his cheek, and 
his eyes were heavy with the dissipation of the previous 
night ; he pressed his hand to his forehead, as though it 
pained him ; and just then Annie entered. She had a large 
shawl folded about her, and her cheek was very white. He 
did not notice her ; but, as she stood watching him, again he 
pressed his hand upon his head, and she went up to him, and 
wound her arm about his neck before he was aware of her 
presence. 

" Are you ill, Annie ? " he asked, looking up with some- 
thing of his old gentleness of manner. 

She tried to answer him cheerfully ; but her voice was 
hoarse and indistinct, and, notwithstanding her efforts, died 
away into a painful whisper. She had taken cold from 
her long night-watch in that very room ; and, knowing it was 
that which had made her ill, a pang of remorse for his un- 
kindness came over him. He whispered a loving word in her 
ear, drew her to his knee, and laid her head upon his bosom, 
caressingly, as one would a sick child. She strove to force 
back the tears gushing to her eyes ; but the efibrt was vain, 
and she wept and sobbed in childish abandonment. 

What wonder, then, that all her confidence in him came 
back, when he soothed her tenderly, and watched over her in 
the days of sickness and pain which followed ? 

After that I did not see her again until the night of a bril- 
liant party, when she came down, before the guests began to 
arrive, to look at the rooms. She was more delicate than 
when I had last seen her, and the color went and came, with a 
feverish flush, on her cheek ; but she looked very lovely in a 
25=^ 



294 ANNIE rutlidge; or, 

rich dress of snowy satin, draped with lace, a white, half- 
blown rose nestling in her hair. 

The rooms were brilliantly lighted, and green-house and 
conservatory had yielded up their treasures to wreath the 
lamps and fill the vases. 

Like a spirit of joy she floated around, arranging and re- 
arranging the flowers, while Hugh stood watching her graceful 
movements. 

" Don't weary yourself, Annie," he said ; " for I expect 
you to do me honor to-night." 

He spoke lightly ; but his words touched a musical chord 
within the wife's heart, and in her love for him for a while 
she forgot her wonted shyness. 

With graceful courtesy she welcomed her guests ; but when 
the rooms were filled, and she missed Hugh from her side, she 
grew flushed and nervous ; and then, just as the bride's beauty 
dimmed, Ruth Chivis, in her wondrous loveliness, swept up 
that sumptuous drawing-room with queenly bearing, and stood 
in vivid contrast beside her confused and weary-looking rival. 

There was a strange, wild gleam in the dark eyes of Hugh 
Rutlidge when his glance rested upon her, and he listened to 
her light words. But, if she marked it, she heeded it not ; 
and no lingering glance or saddened smile spoke to him of the 
past. As the evening wore on, the group around her in- 
creased, and with the crowd's adulation the crimson deepened 
on her cheek, and beaming glance and brilliant repartee were 
lavished alike on all. 

After a while, a gentleman led her to me, arranged the 
music assiduously, and she sang an air from an opera. When 
it was ended, one asked for some old ballad. She took up 
" Auld Robin Gray," and glanced towards Hugh Rutlidge. 
He bent down, and whispered, " Not that, — do not sing it." 
His cheek was flushed, his voice tremulous, and I could per- 
ceive that her own heart was throbbing fust, under all her 
hauteur of manner. She took up the music which he had 



REMIXISCENCES OF A PIANO. 295 

put aside, and sang it quietly through ; but she looked no 
more towards him. 

When the guests had all departed, he sent Annie up to her 
chamber, promising not to remain long ; and then he sat down, 
burying his face in his hands. For a long time he sat there. 
I heard him murmur " Ruth ! " and then he started up, as 
though afraid of his own thoughts, and went out into the 
hall. 

I could hear his step as he passed on towards the dining- 
room ; then there was a sound as though a glass was set 
heavily down, and in a few minutes he passed the door with 
flushed cheek and firmer step ; and I knew that in the wine- 
cup he sought oblivion. 

After that night Ruth never came there more. I heard 
her occasionally spoken of by visitors, as still admired and 
much sought after. Once Hugh was present when a wealthy 
suitor of the lady was spoken of; and he turned his glance 
from the speaker towards his wife, and I trembled for her, it 
was so full of bitterness. 

The winter, the spring, passed away, and Annie Rutlidge 
was rarely happy as she had been in the few weeks succeed- 
ing her marriage, but looked lonely and dispirited. Hugh 
had long ago given up listening to her morning songs, and 
when she sang to me her songs were always sad ones. 

Late in the spring her physician ordered change of air and 
scene, for she was evidently drooping ; and Hugh took her 
first to the country, then to the sea-side. But it was the 
ailment of the heart, not the body,' that was stealing the light 
from her eye, the color from her cheek ; and balm for the 
sickness of the heart there was none. 

In the early autumn they returned. Again she came to 
me to while away the morning hours ; but her voice was 
mournful, her eyes often dim with tears. Hugh was then 
rarely petulant or unkind to her. He left her much alone, 
and she had no near friend to be with her, cheering her lone- 



296 " ANNIE uutlidge; oh; 

liness ; but that she could have borne, had his tongue forgot- 
ten not its tenderness, his lip its smile of love. By day he 
was silent and abstracted, and his nights were spent in reck- 
less gayety. 

Wealth he had now ; but he found he had sacrificed his 
happiness for its attainment ; and the same selfishness which 
had made that costly sacrifice to Moloch caused him to turn 
remorseless from his victim. 

One morning in the autumn, a cold and cheerless morning, 
when the rain fell fast, and the wind blew heavily without, 
Hugh Rutlidge lay sleeping on a couch before the drawing- 
room fire, and his wife, with a book in her hand, sat by his 
side ; but she had not turned a leaf for a long time, for she 
was tracing, not the lines therein, but those which were graven 
by restless dissipation on the handsome lineaments before her. 
His sleep was broken and disturbed. She would have awak- 
ened him if she had dared, but she only ventured to press her 
lips to the hand on her knee. Suddenly it clasped her own 
tightly, so tightly it almost crushed the slender fingers in its 
grasp ; but it was not mere bodily pain that caused her to 
cry out, in low, anguished tones ; it was the murmured words 
on the sleeper's lip. 

" Do not look coldly, Ruth ! I never loved Annie ! Come 
to me, Ruth, darling ! " fell, in broken accents, on her ear. 

She put her hands up feebly, as though she would shut out 
that bitter revelation ; but it had passed through the listener's 
ear down to her heart. A strange pallor settled upon her 
cheek, her head drooped lower and lower, until it sank upon 
his bosom, and, with its weight, he awoke. 

At first, he looked appalled upon those death-like features ; 
but, when he saw that she had but fainted, he lifted her in his 
arms, and carried her up stairs. Then there were hurried 
footsteps, eager voices, in the chamber above. Not until 
towards sunset did the bustle subside into profound stillness, 
and I knew that she was very ill ; but I could learn nothing 



REMINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 297 

more, until, just as the shadows of the comiDg night began to 
gather about me, Hugh staggered in, and threw himself down 
upon the couch where she had fainted in the morning. The 
door opening into the hall was ajar, and with his heavy sighs 
there mingled the faint, wailing cry of an infant. Once or 
twice it came, and I knew that a child was born to him, — that 
it was its feeble voice which I heard ; but not until the suc- 
ceeding day did I learn that the sweet voice which had so 
often mingled its tones with mine was forever hushed, — that 
the mother was dead ! 

Servants came to darken the rooms, and then the dead was 
brought in. Many came to look upon the fair white face, 
and all spoke wonderingly of the angelic smile thereon. There 
were whispered words of sympathy for the bereaved husband, 
and the little one above ; and they laid fragrant flowers on 
the brow of the early-called, mourning for her who in life's 
spring-time had died. I alone knew that it was the Father 
of Mercy who had taken his smitten child to his arms, when 
she shuddered and grew cold in the wintry blast of despair 
sweeping over her spirit ; and I grieved alone for the child 
who was never to know a mother's love. 

Early on the morning of the day on which Annie Rutlidge 
was to be buried, Hugh stood beside the lifeless form, looking 
down upon the ruin which he had made, with the brand of 
Cain on his soul. The beautiful face of Ruth, which had so 
long haunted him, faded as he glanced down on the rigid 
features before him. The memory of his lost wife, as she lay 
there with her little, shadowy hands folded calmly over the 
fragrant flowers on her bosom, clung to him by day and by 
night : it would not pass away ; neither could he rid himself 
of the icy thrill that struck to his heart wlien, with a pang of 
bitter remorse, he pressed his lips to the still one's before him. 

Days, weeks of mourning, followed the death of Annie 
Rutlidge. Then there was the stir of departure, leave-tak- 
ings, and gentle charges to old Mrs. Rutlidge, who had come 



298 ANNIE rutlidge; or, 

to watch over the little motherless one, to take fond care of 
his child ; and Hugh Rutlidge went abroad, an altered man. 

The presence of death had startled him from the reckless 
dissipation into which he had plunged. The shadow which 
lay dark on his home, where all but for him had perchance 
been beauty and sunshine yet, — the memory of the wife 
whom he had lured from happiness to sorrow, — touched his 
better nature, and roused him, for a season, to a less selfish 
existence. 

Nearly a year subsequent to Hugh's departure, one day 
Ruth Chivis sat before me, waiting the presence of his 
mother. 

Time also had wrought changes in her. She had lost some- 
thing of the pride of other days ; there was more of womanly 
tenderness in the softened light of her dark eyes ; but even as 
I looked they grew dim with the gathering tears, and I knew 
thought was busied with buried hours. 

When she had last been in that beautiful drawing-room, 
the fair young wife had been also present in her unshadowed 
beauty. She would fain have forced back the gathering tears ; 
but with each passing thought they came faster and faster, 
until she bowed her face within her hands, and sobbed aloud. 

Just then a sweet baby laugh fell upon her ear, the joyous 
crowing of the child above ; and she dried her tears, listening 
eagerly to hear it repeated. A moment, and again it came, 
close at hand, as its grandmother entered with the child on 
her arm. Ruth was a favorite with the old lady, and she had 
brought her pet down for her to see, unconscious of the degree 
of emotion the appearance of that child awoke in the woman's 
agitated spirit. 

With a countenance expressive of the deepest tenderness 
she looked upon the child. Perhaps the dark, full ringlets 
which fell about that beautiful face attracted its atten- 
tion; for it stretched forth its hands with a gleeful laugh 



REMINISCENCES 01" A PIANO. 299 

towards her. She took it in her arms, and covered its little 
face with her kisses. 

And all the while Ruth sat talking with Mrs. Rutlidge 
the baby looked earnestly up into her face, with its great dark 
eyes, so like those of its dead mother that a strange awe stole 
over her heart. 

After that day she came very often, and the child was 
always either brought to her in the drawing-room or Euth 
went up to the nursery ; where I could hear her clear laugh 
mingling with that of the child, who had learned to clap its 
tiny hands, in infantile joy, on her appearance. 

But at length her visits were brought to an abrupt termi- 
nation. Hugh Rutlidge was expected home. He came ; 
change of scene had driven the cloud from his brow, gloom 
from his heart. 

He did not go up stairs to the nursery at once to see his 
child, as most fathers would have done, but ordered her, when 
he had taken his tea, brought down to him in the drawing- 
room. 

With her wavering, uncertain step, the little fairy came 
tottering in, pleased with the lighted room. He looked upon 
her loveliness with something of a father's pride, and would 
have taken her on his knee ; but his strange face and hasty 
movement frightened the child. She struggled for freedom, 
and cried aloud : he strove to pacify her, but she only sobbed ; 
and he put her down angrily, and, as fast as her baby steps 
could carry her, she sought the side of her nurse, and laid 
her flushed cheek against her apron, looking round towards 
him with a sad, questioning expression. 

There was something in his child's look that thrilled the 
soul of the man. It seemed to him as though the spirit of 
his dead wife was looking out upon him from those eyes, up- 
braiding him for his neglect of herself and child ; and, with a 
slight shudder, he went out. After that the little one gradu- 
ally lost her fear of him ; but he rarely noticed her. 



300 ANNIE rutlidge; on, 

He had been home little more than a year, when there was 
a great stir in the house. Upholsterers came to look at the 
rooms, and one day I was ordered to give place to a new 
comer. They removed me to a fairy -like boudoir on the second 
floor. By the fresh lustre of the silken curtains, I knew that 
it had been recently fitted up, and it was not long before I 
became aware that it was for the reception of Hugh Rut- 
lidge's second bride. 

At last she came, with a mingled expression of joy and 
sadness on her charming face ; and I knew she who had been 
Ruth Chivis had become the wife of Hugh Rutlidge — that she 
had taken the place of the dead. 

For a time I was vexed with her that she could have thus 
lightly overlooked his former neglect of herself, and forgive 
him the suffering he had caused. But when I saw how 
deep was that woman's aflfection, outliving change and deser- 
tion, — and, more than all else, when I beheld her devoted to 
the motherless girl, as though in her tenderness for her she 
would atone to the dead for the place she had usurped, — I 
ceased to entertain bitterness towards her. 



Years passed ; a boy was given them, and they called him 
Harry. He was a child of glorious promise, whom the father 
made his idol, to the exclusion of his eldest born ; but Ruth, 
loving him with all a mother's inefiable tenderness, never 
forgot her who grew up to girlhood fair as a poet's dream, 
gentle as her own dead mother, lavishing the whole wealth 
of her young affections on her beloved Harry and his mother, 
yearning, but never venturing, to offer the like to Hugh him- 
self. Perhaps it was the memory of the injured mother, 
which her presence ever conjured up, that hushed all tender 
words for her child to silence on his lip ; or, a feeling of 
strange bitterness, engendered by the knowledge that Annie 
was heiress, in her mother's right, to the great wealth which 
she had brought him, to the exclusion of Harry. 



REMINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 301 

Was not the inheritance of his mother's beauty and loyal 
heart sufficient for the boy? What craved he more than the 
genius that flashed from the boy's eyes, the high and noble 
soul within his breast ? 

However it may have been, all Ruth's endeavors, all 
Annie's duteousness, could not win from him those tokens of 
affection which she was learning to long after more and more 
each day of her life. 

The last year of Harry's collegiate life had passed ; he had 
graduated with distinction. But the father's exceeding pride 
in his son was shadowed by tidings of wildness and dissipation, 
and Harry Kutlidge came home with sunken cheek and worn 
look. Hugh's heart yearned towards him as it had not yearned 
even in the days of his innocence ; but he dreaded the rash, 
impulsive disposition of the boy, — he feared lest words of ten- 
derness might lull him to easy forgetfulness of his errors when 
again tempted. So he veiled his affection under a cold, stern 
demeanor, which should awe him into obedience ; and the boy 
shrank from the presence he had loved. There came over 
him an embarrassment, when in his father's presence, which 
the latter mistook for conscious guilt ; and the man's pride was 
touched. Shame and bitterness took the place of old tender- 
ness. He grew colder and sterner each day. Even his wife 
could not win him from his reserve ; and with growing alarm 
she anticipated the result. At last it broke upon her, more 
agonizing in its consummation than her wildest fears had 
shadowed forth. 

Chilled by his father's coldness, in despair at the sadness 
depicted on his mother's countenance, again Harry Rutlidge 
rushed into dissipation, more dangerous from its reckless- 
ness and secrecy ; and again it was discovered by his father. 
There was a bitter, disgraceful scene between the two. The 
boy defied his authority, and left his home in madness ; while 
Hugh forbade all mention of him in his presence — deaf to 
26 



302 ANNIE RUTLIDGE ; OR, 

the motlier's prayer for indulgence for her cMld, mute to the 
love pleading in his own breast for the unhappy exile. 

It was nearly a fortnight after his departure, when, one 
evening, after Mr. Rutlidge had gone out, and the grief- 
stricken mother lay ill in her chamber, Annie sat alone in the 
little boudoir, by my side. She had grown into girlhood, 
very like her mother, only there was something more of reso- 
lution in the full, dark eyes, and a latent power lurked about 
the mouth, as though opportunity was alone needed to call 
into action a firmness that neither iron will nor fierce passion 
could shake. But that night she was weeping, for the thought 
of the banished one lay heavy at her heart. 

As she sat there the door opened, and Harry himself came 
in. He looked cautiously about him, and, closing the door, 
secured it as noiselessly as he had entered, and stood gazing 
upon the tearful girl before him. 

His eyes were wild and sunken, his cheek very pale, but 
for the feverish glow burning thereon. He lifted the cap 
drawn low over his forehead, whispering " Annie," at last, in 
a voice very low, as though fearful of being overheard. The 
girl sprang up. 

" Has he gone, Annie ? " 

" Yes, Harry," she answered, sadly, but softly, comprehend- 
ing at once whom he feared to meet. 

Then the boy — foj* he was but a boy, notwithstanding all 
that weight of misery pressing so heavily upon him — sank 
down upon a chair, faint and weak. 

'".Are you hungry, Harry? " asked Annie. 

" Yes, starving ! " and his face grew dark with the spirit's 
bitterness, — " but I will die here before you, Annie, ere I 
taste a morsel of his ! " 

" Hush ! " she whispered, earnestly, laying her hand on his 
lip to silence him. " 0, hush, Harry, my brother ! " 

" Don't call me brother, Annie ! " he answered, hoarsely; 
" you will be glad to forget that, when you know all." 



RE3IINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 303 

But she did call him brother, and every other fond name 
in the vocabulary of affection ; and he laid his head upon 
her knee, and wept hot, scalding tears of anguish. 0, it was 
beautiful to hear her then plead with him to cast out the 
angry spirit from his heart, — to hear her beseech him to ask 
humbly for that forgiveness which she knew would be given 
to him sorrowing and contrite ! 

" Never, Annie, never ! " he said, at last, starting up. " I 
have but little time to be with you, for I have only come to 
bid you good-by before I leave you ; I could not go forever 
away without seeing you, Annie. I shall be off when the 
sun rises — I must, darling; but, 0, never" — and he pointed 
to the door leading to his mother's chamber — "let her curse 
or forget her child, whatever he may do ! " 

" Would you break her heart, Harry Kutlidge ? By all 
her love for you, her only son, I beseech you not to leave 
us ! " And she wound her arms tightly around him, to detain 
him. 

Then he bent down, whispering that within her ear that 
blanched her cheek; and she staggered back and stood looking 
at him, as though wondering that he, her brother, could be 
thus sinful, while he stood before her, his lashes drooping low 
over his burning cheeks, bowed down with shame. Then the 
expression on her face changed, for something within whis- 
pered her that he was more sinned against than sinning. 

" Do not despair, Harry," she began, in a firm, low voice. 
But she was interrupted by a sudden agonized gesture from 
him; and " 0, God! my mother ! I thought I should be spared 
this ! " came, in deep, despairing tones, from his lip, as his eye 
fell upon the figure of his mother, standing on the threshold 
of her chamber, with cheeks white as the lace of the cap 
which shaded them. 

" My boy ! my child ! Harry ! " she said, in a sweet, 
mournful voice, putting her arm tenderly about him, "it is 
I who should have been spared this doubt. Have you no 



304 ANNIE rutlidge; or, 

confidence in your mother's love? It is very deep and 
strong, my child ; how entire you may judge when you hear 
me. Harry, I have loved your father from my extreme 
youth, even before he met the mother of our dear Annie ; 
but he neglected, forsook me for her ; and when she died, 
and his early love for me returned, I was grateful to him for 
even that. My child, since the day he married me, neither 
lip nor glance has addressed me but in tenderest affection ; 
and, realizing all this, and loving him as tenderly as ever, for 
your sake I am going to leave him, if together you cannot 
live in peace and happiness, — for he can do better without me 
than you can. I gave you life ; I will not give you up to 
temptation. Wherever you go, there also will I go to cheer 
you, to keep you from sin. God knows that my love for him 
knows no change ; but I will be with you, my child, in your 
hour of peril." 

The mother's voice never once wavered, but there was a 
divine light in her eye, illuming her whole countenance ; and 
never, in her most brilliant hour, did she look so lovely as 
when she stood there before them. But the expression of the 
son's face changed not with those words of love. The drops 
of agony gathered fast upon his brow ; his breath was thick 
and gasping ; but when he comprehended her he raised him- 
self erect, and a flash of pride became visible, humbled as he 
was. 

" Do you think, my mother," he asked, in a voice sweet 
and mournful as her own, "that I will permit you to do this 
for me ? But you cannot ! Annie ! Annie ! " he said, turn- 
ing entreatingly towards her, " won't you take her away? — 
I have so little strength, I ought not to have come here, — it 
was very weak and foolish, and heartless and selfish," he 
added, as he saw their tears. 

" If you can get it to-night, will it save you, Harry ? " 
asked Annie, with tearful eyes and earnest countenance. 

" Don't mock me, Annie ! Not of him, not of him ! " 



REMINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 305 

" Will it do," she repeated, steadily, " if I can give it to 
you?" 

He looked at her first incredulous, then wistfully, while a 
gleam of hope shot across his wan face. 

" You shall have it all, every cent of it, Harry ; and then 
— I will trust what you will do then, my own brother ! " she 
said, with a warm, fond smile. " Go, rest with our mother, 
now ; I will come to you by and by, and, after all, we will be 
happy once more." And together mother and son passed on 
to the chamber beyond, and Annie sat down to think of the 
task before her. 

How was she, who never asked favor of her father, to soften 
his obdurate heart, when even his wife had pleaded with him 
in vain — she, the unloved, neglected one? But something 
within her encouraged her to persevere; and, at last, when 
she heard his step on the stairs, she arose, and, opening the 
door, looked out into the hall. 

When he saw her standing there, he paused, and she asked 
him to come in, as she wished to speak with him. With 
a look of surprise, he entered, and sat down in a chair 
directly opposite to his daughter. 

For a moment she stood as though gathering courage to 
address him. He glanced towards her impatiently, and she 
went up to him, saying, " I want to speak to you, father, 
about Harry." 

" I forbid you, Annie Rutlidge, now and forever ! " he 
answered, rising angrily, as if to depart. 

But she laid her hand upon his arm to detain him, telling 
him that even his command must not prevent her; for he 
would blame her hereafter still more than he did then, if she 
did not disobey him. 

And then she told him that which caused him to sink down 
again upon his seat, cover his face with his hands, and groan 
aloud. She put her arms about him. He shook her ofi", but 
26* 



306 ANNIE rutlidge; or, 

slie would not be repulsed. She clung to him, and kissed his 
cold cheek, and murmured words of endearment in his ear. 

And after a while he grew calm, but it was the deadly 
calm of despair. He drew her to his knee, and, looking 
steadily in her face, said, " I have never loved you, Annie, as 
I have loved him : why should yoii plead for him ? " 

" Because," answered the girl, " notwithstanding all this, I 
love you, my father, too well to see you thus laying up bit- 
ter anguish for yourself hereafter ; and again, because it is 
a terrible thing to behold our loved and gifted Harry ruined, 
when there is one who can rescue a spirit shaken by the 
temptations of life, and who will not stretch fOrth a hand to 
save him; and more than all else, my father, because there 
is a Father whose will is more omnipotent with me than even 
thine ; and He strengthens me in this hour of trial, else my 
spirit were weary, my heart faint with the weight of woe 
laying so heavily upon it. This is the first boon in life I 
ever asked of you ; and I ask this, father, because Harry 
knew not what he did when he forged that note. See, I can 
speak of it now without a shudder, for it was the light in 
which I first viewed it which filled my soul with anguish. 
Now I feel that in his great want and temptation he knew no 
more what he did, than you, father, when you sent him forth 
on the great sea of human life, in despair and grief, with 
none to guide him aright. And if he, your child, has come 
to the verge of destruction, dearest father, in God's eyes are 
you not in a measure responsible ? If you can rescue him 
now, and avail yourself not of the power, then God help 
you ! " 

She stood before him calm, sublime, in her unwavering 
adherence to what she believed to be her duty ; and all the 
while he sat looking at her, wondering to hear one usually 
so timid and quiet thus boldly eloquent. It was strange to 
behold the daughter of the dead wife pleading thus for the 
child of Ruth. 



REMINISCENCES OF A PIANO. 307 

It was not the paltry sum for whicli she asked that he 
resisted ; for he would have given the world's wealth, had it 
been in his power, to have wiped away the blot upon his son's 
name ; but it was the bitter sense of injury received, that had 
taken the place of the old tenderness, which made him callous, 
hard to yield. 

But he dared not refuse. He gave her that for which she 
pleaded ; and in her great haste she paused not to thank him, 
but passed on to the chamber beyond. 

There was the murmur of low, eager voices ; then they were 
hushed. The door opened, but Hugh Rutlidge did not look 
up ; his face was buried within his hands, and he felt strangely 
desolate. Those whom he loved, wife and son, had dared not 
come, — only she whom he had hitherto shunned. 

But with the opening door Harry stood before him. His 
face was white, but firm ; not a muscle quivered. 

"I have come to beseech you to lift from my soul the 
curse which has burdened it since we parted ; to thank you 
for the bounty which has concealed from the world my shame, 
and take forever from your presence a son who has dishonored 
the life which he owes to you," he said, in a voice which was 
very painful to listen to, in its unnatural calmness. And, as 
he spoke, Hugh Butlidge raised his head, and looked upon 
him. 

It was a sorrowful, brokeu'hearted glance, and the boy 
trembled fearfully beneath it. 

" Pardon, O, pardon me, father ! " came, in a hoarse whis- 
per, from his lips. 

" God bless, God forgive you freely, Harry, as I do ! " 
answered Hugh, in accents as hoarse and tremulous as his 
own, as he bent over him who knelt a suppliant now at his* 
feet. 

With a faint whisper of joy, the beautiful face turned tow- 
ards him, as he sank slowly back upon the soft carpet, while 



308 ANNIE rutlidge; or, reminiscences of a piano. 

the bright flowers thereon grew dark with the life-current 
flowing from the white lips of Harry Rutlidge. 

There were long hours of doubt and anguish ; then there 
settled down on all hearts the deep, silent grief, born of death. 
The boy died with a calm smile on his lip, — peace filling his 
weary heart. 

And Hugh Kutlidge was now indeed a changed man. 
Smitten in his most cherished hopes, softened, subdued, by 
grief, he recognized the infinite mercy of Heaven, when his 
idol was stricken, and the neglected one stood by his side 
ministering to his peace, and pouring balm into his own heart 
and the bleeding heart of Ruth ; for to her who, in the beau- 
tiful language of the Scriptures, had cast her bread upon the 
waters, had it returned. She could not be childless, though 
her own child was dead, while Annie Rutlidge remained. 



UNSPOKEN YOWS 



" Beloved, all make vows," he said, — 
" I offer none to thee, though now, 

Thus pillowing this drooping head, 

Their breath would fall upon thy brow. 

" Beloved, let our after years 

Prove all sweet promises unmade, 

Perfecting through eternal spheres ; — 
Trust me, mine own, be not afraid." 

With a rich flush of rosy light 

Deep thrilling over brow and cheek. 

The gentle rapture of delight, 

"Beloved," she said, "all words are weak!" 

Those " after years " have come to her. 

Are their bright promises fulfilled, 
Does the same breath those tresses stir, 

And is that tender bloom unchilled? 

Answer, hearts that have relied 

On love too pure for earthly thrall ; — 

From erring passion purified. 
She walks in silence with ye all. 



THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 



CHAPTER I. 

" From the strong will, and the endeavor 

That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of fate ; 
From the wreck of hopes far scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate.'* 

Seated alone, one day in early spring, in a silent, shadowy 
room, while, one by one, came down great drops of rain, with 
a faint sob, to kiss the window-panes, — the fire burning bright 
within the grate, a parted fold of the curtain alone revealing, 
with the murmur of the petulant wind, the presence without 
of the unquiet spirit of the storm, — I yielded my thoughts, 
through the long hours of that destiny-marked day, to the 
half-brilliant, half-shadowed dreams of girlhood ; dreams 
which were filling my soul with that vague longing after 
afi'ection — that delicious belief, and proud consciousness of 
the power within, to weave into the woof of life the one 
thread so gorgeous, so durable, that is woven through the 
heart-strings of all womankind. 

From the period when, a mere child-student, in the qui- 
etude of a school-room, forgetful of the labor, the weariness of 
its translation, I lingered over the love of Paul and Virginia, 
— its power and pathos thrilling my heart, for the first time, 



THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE : AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 311 

into a girlish perception of that after-knowledge, at once so 
simple and so profound to every pure and elevated soul — 
that heavenly beatitude, blessed are the beloved; — since then 
ever have I dreamed — ah ! and still I dream — dream, with 
the last ray of earthly hope quenched by the overflow of that 
fountain of grief which fills with the upspringing in the soul 
eternal of trial and suflfering. This spring of bitter waters 
is not born in the blessed peace of childhood ; it rises in the 
great strife of human life, to empty its turbulent waves into 
that of death. 

But life to me, then, had no autumnal clouds ; faint shad- 
ows alone had flitted over the horizon, subduing, but never 
veiling, the bright sunshine. Once, when a little cherub 
brother, who had nestled in his flight from heaven a while 
upon our mother's bosom, sank into a serene, breathless slum- 
ber, I remember weeping bitterly, and stealing from my own 
bed, in the hush of dawning day, to kneel by his little white- 
spread cradle, that I might wake him, as ofttimes before, with 
a loving kiss ; but those lips which had dimpled ever before be- 
neath my own remained still, like cold, pale rose-leaves, folded 
forever ; and then came my poor, sorrow-stricken mother, to 
press me to her heart, and win me from my wild grief, by the 
knowledge of the home to which God had taken our wanderer. 

And, once again, there were days of sorrowing, but not as 
when death entered our home circle; for now it was a loss 
which had nothing of the subduing, purifying influence of 
death. It raised into life a demon which was to pursue us 
with more or less pertinacity, — which at first veiled its hydra- 
head beneath the mantle of dignity, but in after life revealed 
itself, with its iron swa}'', its subtle poison ; and each heart 
ached, in the finale, which had taken Pride, as its buckler 
against the world, to its bosom. 

Our father, our free, generous, lavish father, was a ruined 
merchant, bankrupt in fortunes ; but he bore it like a brave 
man in the world's eve, and struo!;gled on for the children who 



312 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE : 

had been dearer in affluence than his own heart's blood, and 
who grew yet dearer in adversity. A less spacious, a less 
luxurious home, was taken ; but still comfort, refinement, even 
much of elegance, remained. But now the paternal eye, 
in its intense care, grew more watchful of our outward 
appearance. The diminished attentions of society, marked 
not by us still thoughtless children, instigated our parents to 
an ambition for us with which they had never wearied them-ij 
selves in the independence of by-gone affluence. 

No longer were we suffered to go bounding through the 
hall, with the wild buoyancy of happiness, to our father's 
arms, when he joined his family in the evening time ; he would 
subdue the flying step with stately rebuke, silence into more 
well-bred modulations the merry, ringing laugh ; and, though 
a deeper love might have lain in his heart, and moistened his 
glance, we beheld only the changed manner, the sterner rule, 
and withdrew from him ever more and more, until distance, 
and something akin to fear, lay in the place of the gushing 
love of impulsive childhood. 

Ada, our eldest sister, with all her father's pride joined 
to a woman's beauty and sensitiveness, had made her debut 
in society, the daughter of a rich man. Well I remember 
standing by her side the night my mother, with assiduous care, 
robed her for her first appearance; and wondering, in my 
childish enthusiasm, if there would be any other so fair as 
our young Ada in her rich attire, — so very lovely in her 
gayety. 

Days and weeks went by, and from my mother's words I 
knew dear Ada won much admiration in the brillant circle in 
which she moved. Bouquets of choice exotics, with delicate 
perfumed notes, were sent her, and stylish-looking men came 
frequently to our house ; but Ada remained as of old, until, 
after a while, she grew brighter, more joyous; and then I over- 
heard my mother's maid tell our old nurse, in a whisper, 
" that Miss Ada Aubrey would soon be Mrs. Courtland." 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 313 

Then came our father's reverse of fortune, and a sudden 
paling of Ada's red cheek ; days in which only my mother 
saw her eldest child, and Mr. Courtland's name was no longer 
mentioned. 

I could not then comprehend the sudden change in Ada's 
whole being; for even physically she had changed. She 
looked taller, from her more erect bearing, the prouder car- 
riage of her head ; but she was cold and reserved, at times 
irritable, and most unhappy in the seclusion of home. 

So passed the winter; but in the spring there was also 
another change. Ada was to be married — married to one 
twice her years. Young as I then was, I knew there was 
little affection in that brilliant bridal; the beautiful dark 
eyes, which flashed a lightning-like glance, from beneath the 
costly bridal veil, upon the gay friends grouped around her, 
the millionaire's bride, spoke the bitterness of her heart. 

Mr. Richard Rutland took his wife, my sister Ada, to his 
distant home ; and the parting with her kindred, which would 
once have wrung with acute pain a loving heart, passed very 
calmly, but for one wild, convulsive sob, when a mother's kiss 
sank upon those quivering lips. 

It was a long time before I visited her ; and during the 
brief time that I was there I was painfully oppressed by the 
frigid elegance of all that surrounded her. It was a fine old 
aristocratic residence, and Mr. Rutland was evidently proud 
of the fair mistress who filled his house with company, and 
with her high-bred manner added eclat to his wealth. Per- 
chance, though unconsciously, his heart, in the secrecy of that 
gorgeous home, might have pined for that tenderness which 
came not with the flower which he had gathered to his bosom ; 
he might have yearned for that tenderness which was forever 
dead — which had been thrown back, a scorned treasure, upon 
the pure, fresh heart of youth. 

Ada's heart had frozen ; no love-beam could warm it. The 
fairest statue gleaming from its niche in her magnificent 



314 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE: 

drawing-room was neither fairer or colder ; but every bosom 
has its own secrets, and, like his wife's, Kichard Rutland's 
heart was a close-sealed volume. 

Our father gloried in the proud position of his eldest child ; 
he had no cause to deem her a miserable sacrifice to a base, 
mercenary spirit, to her own unhappy pride. But, ah ! a 
mother's eye is powerful to penetrate the calm exterior, to 
fathom the tearless eye, and mark the spirit's inward rain 
falling in ice-drops upon the aching heart. She alone knew 
the fury of the storm which had desolated her child's life, and 
sent her forth with all the sweet, blissful words of womanly 
tenderness an unspoken language by her. 

All this I gathered with the lapse of years, and a more 
intimate knowledge of life, — that life which I, too, was ad- 
vancing upon, serene, trusting, as Ada had been before me. 
But I was not "like my elder sister ; nature had fashioned us 
but little like unto each other. I could not subdue myself, 
let come what might, as she had done. God created me a 
creature of impulse. The firmness of Ada had perchance 
changed my destiny. 

But I wander from that revery in the early spring, with 
that longing after conceived but unrealized afiection which 
was ever haunting me, — which, more than once, allured by 
some meteor, I had rejoiced in, but to reject with disappoint- 
ment. I arose, and paced to and fro, restlessly, the apartment. 
The reflection of a vision in the mirror riveted my glance. It 
was that of a young girl, not beautiful ; a simple dark cash- 
mere robed the slender figure, and a band of snow-white lace 
encircled the throat. There was no glow of beauty on the 
pale cheek, no Grecian-cut features ; but around the slightly 
parted lips lay a soft, trustful expression. They quivered 
with emotion, as when an earnest heart thrills to the melody 
of life ; and something of intellect looked out from the pale, 
calm brow, banded by soft brown hair. 

For a moment or more self gazed upon its reflection, and I 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 315 

fancied, standing close beside me, a colossal figure, a noble 
head, bending downward. Girlhood paints full oft such 
pleasing pictures, and desire bids the vision which hope has 
sketched whisper softly to the more youthful spirit. It bore 
the semblance of one only once beheld, then personally un- 
known. 

It was Destiny which called to memory, that idle hour, the 
remembrance of Laurie Oakland. Destiny, seemingly the 
caprice of a wayward girl, which led me to the little escru- 
toire, standing close at hand, and seated me there, penning, to 
the music of the falling rain, a half- truthful, half-visionary 
letter ; a letter which should win one of whom I had often 
heard to bestow a passing thought, perchance a response, to 
the gratification of a girlish whim ; and with a false signature 
it was forwarded to Laurie Oakland, of Oakwood. 

The novel fancy of this person, several years older than 
myself, who had withdrawn, from the brilliant society of a gay 
life, and singled out a sunny nook in the quietude of the 
country for his residence, had won much upon my imagination 
in connection with a vague, mysterious report of hours of 
misery through which his soul had passed ; and, while train- 
ing roses over his garden lattices, and winning the oak's 
gigantic boughs to shade the trellises of his quiet house, it was 
rumored that, even in the purity and serenity of such an 
existence, he was not free from life's trials — trials very ter- 
rible to bear. 

A desire to commune with this spirit struggling heroically 
beneath life's burden was mine ; — to be to his suflFering heart 
what, in the hopefulness of an unsubdued spirit, I believed 
that I might be, a cheerer of its loneliness. I wished that, 
shrouded in the incognita which enveloped me, — free to 
give voice to my thoughts unembarrassed, in my concealment, 
by the conventional rules of life, — I might be to him a spirit- 
love, ready to console in affliction and soothe in sorrow. 

The belief in the actual of a love like this, ever debarred 



316 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE: 

from earthly passion, was easy for a young, impassioned 
spirit ; and when the chord which, with hopeful fingers, I had 
essayed to touch in the heart of the stranger, gave forth a 
responsive note, I yielded my entire imagination to the fas- 
cination of that dream of romance, and for a while we corre- 
sponded as we had commenced. 

But Laurie Oakland's heart had outgrown the romance of 
youth. A love which was thus ideal could not suffice him ; he 
desired the actual, which he fancied would be more precious 
than the ideal. The heart of manhood could not be satisfied 
with a love so ethereal, pure, beautiful as it was, — coming, 
unfearing, like a birdling, to his heart, there evermore to pour 
its sweet song of joy upon the ear. He grew importunate 
that I should reveal myself to him. He was not content to 
know me but in spirit; he was like other men, and could not 
divest himself of the mere physical senses, and dwell in aspi- 
rations for a higher and more elevated life. My dream, so 
childlike in its hopefulness, was at an end ; I sorrowed over 
the awakening; but, in the union of thought, which had 
so long been ours, his mind had exerted something like a 
magnetic influence upon mine. For the first time there now 
arose in my heart a yearning, an intense yearning, after that 
beauty hitherto uncared for. 

" I would that I were a beautiful woman ! but, alas ! I am 
not," I repeated to myself again and again, as he grew ever 
more importunate. 

That which I had hitherto offered him was beautiful as the 
stars, pure as the angels in heaven. I had weeded carefully 
the garden of my heart, and culled for his acceptance only 
the purest and fairest flowers. He knew nothing of the 
mortal infirmities, the waste spots, as it were, of my heart. 
All that was fair and pure had been separated from the more 
earthly part of my nature. ! it was a glorious offering 
which I laid upon the altar of faith, built up in the overflow- 
ing trust of a young heart, for that man ! 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 317 

While I hesitated and trembled lest the revelation of my- 
self should disappoint him too bitterly, I ceased to remember 
that the very infirmities revealed of his nature, as our knowl- 
edge of mutual secrets increased, had but served to deepen 
into tenderness and sympathy my own feelings towards him. 
But the will of a resolute man is not an easy thing to be 
evaded. 

The incognita which I had believed to be so impenetrable 
he had well-nigh fathomed. 

Laurie Oakland was on the eve of a knowledge which I 
would fain have never revealed to him. A sudden womanly 
diffidence had swept over me, with the manifest danger, and 
burnt in a fever of humiliation on my cheek. 

I lingered over my task ; I was loth to pen the words 
which should unloose the shrouding veil between us. I 
glanced upon the imploring words, the ardent entreaties, 
traced by that beloved hand ; I gazed upon the painted linea- 
ments of his noble countenance, which he had sent me ; and I 
obeyed him. 

It had a strange power, that simple, truthful miniature ; 
for the expression would ever vary as the light fell upon it, 
standing in its little half-opened frame. To me there were 
moments when it seemed to smile upon me so tenderly, that 
through my whole being its influence was diffused like radi- 
ant sunshine. And when, in the shade, a cloud lay upon the 
brow, a blended expression of reproach and irony looked forth 
from the deep-blue eyes, then life grew dark — my spirit 
troubled. 

A ray of sunlight gilded it, one bright May morning, as it 
lay before me, while I answered a letter that hour received. 

" Dearest Laurie ! Most beautifully and truthfully has 
Longfellow embodied, in exquisite verse, the emotion which 
we all, I believe, experience more or less, — an emotion 
which has stolen over my soul, this radiant spring morning ; 

27=^ 



318 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE: 

* A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain. 
And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles rain.' 

" ' Wherefore art thou sad, my soul ? ' question I ; and 
echo answers, ' Wherefore ? ' Why am I sad, my 
friend? Ask thine own spirit, and a voice shall answer 
you, ' Even because the fairy castle which I built lavishly 
out of the rich material of young faith and hope was founded 
upon the quick-sands of time — ay, time ! — and the glorious 
edifice, whose fair proportions and pure architecture I gloried 
in, lies shattered and low in the dust, the dust of hope. But, 
lo ! even out of chaos rises a star burning with a light intense, 
yet serene, in the horizon of life. Thou, Laurie, wilt thou 
not also recognize this beacon-light ? ' 

" Over this shadow, which you have given me, of yourself, I 
have thrown my handkerchief; but the bland, fragrant morn- 
ing breeze, stealing through the open- casement, lifts a fold ; 
and may I tell you that there is more of sunshine falling from 
those gazing eyes of your own upon me than from the cloud- 
less sky above ? 0, why will you seek to dispel the delight- 
ful illusion which we have, I believe, so mutually enjoyed? 

" Through your less painfully sensitive brain of manhood can 
there gleam no light which may reveal to you the pain with 
which a feminine heart must shrink from a confession of this 
nature ? Consider — be merciful, and spare me ! 

" Confidently trusting you will grant this prayer, I would 
that the only painful thought to me in connection with you 
should be banished. 

" With the sunrise this morning, alone, on horseback, I 
was cantering over the open road, where the pale pink leaves 
of the apple-blossoms floated down with every breath of the 
bland spring air, to kiss the dark-green sward beneath. 
Everything seemed fresh, buoyant with exuberant life ; and 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 319 

the glad song of the robin sang sweeter than ever before on 
my ear. 

" Why, Laurie, is it that a deeper power manifests itself 
in every living thing ? Is it because a deeper pulse b^ats at 
my heart, that all things become luminous and bright ? — bright 
even while this ^undefinable sadness lurks at my heart, — a 
sadness which I would not part with, mingled, made up, as it 
is, of sweetness and woe, — prophetic, as it is, in momentary 
despondency of the future. But, ah ! am I not selfish to a 
degree which will make me seem very pitiable and weak to 
you, in thus dwelling on the passing mournfulness of my own 
restless heart? How can I impart consolation and strength 
to you, should misfortune on your part call upon me for sym- 
pathy, if thus I show myself void of that serenity, that holy 
faith in the all-wise Power directing the destiny of our lives ? 

" 0, my friend ! it occurs to me that I am very perverse in 
spirit, to strike out from the broad, even pathway of life, 
which others travel in contentment, to seek thus to trace one 
bright little rivulet which has captivated my fancy ! 

" Laurie, I am drawn on by a secret desire to enlist your 
sympathies, — to reveal to you that of which I have not yet 
spoken, of which I should not, had not the relation between us 
become more material. Through the ambition of others, I 
have been partially led into an engagement with one for whom 
I entertain little or no affection; but who, alas ! loves me with 
an intensity which no coldness, petulance or waywardness, 
on my part, can diminish. He offers me a luxurious home, — 
to contribute every blessing that wealth can purchase, to add 
to my happiness ; but, uncongenial in spirit, utterly dissimilar 
in feeling, how can I accept that which he proffers me ? I 
have ever endeavored to teach him that his affection is un- 
welcome to me ; but, in his weakness, he recoils from the 
knowledge ; and I — ! I could not love one without that 
noble pride, that glorious hauteur of spirit, which would die 
rather than lay open thus his secret woe to every careless eye. 



320 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE : 

" But the margin of this last sheet is covered. Adieu, my 
friend, and yield to my wishes, that still, as now, I may 
remain your Cara." 

After this letter was sent, I awaited with much anxiety its 
answer, which was, for a time, through a trivial accident, de- 
ferred. In the interval a gradual realization of my feelings 
dawned upon me ; with sudden courage I roused myself to a 
serious firmness in regard to him of whom I had written to 
Laurie Oakland, and William Courtney withdrew himself 
from my presence. 

Indulged, petted child as I had hitherto been, nothing saved 
me from the censure of my friends, but the attention which I 
was rapidly attracting by the productions of my pen ; and 
for her who was, by her individual exertions, winning herself 
a prominent position, an alliance even such as I had refused 
became of less consequence. 

Ah I little they dreamed of the cause, undefined even to 
myself, from which sprang up such bright, fair thoughts, 
emptying themselves, in a vein of joyous eloquence, through- 
out all that I wrote, whether it sparkled diamond-like in flow- 
ing verse, or burnt in impassioned prose. But when grave, 
learned men smiled benignantly, when men of letters conde- 
scended to pen words of encouragement to the young aspirant 
for literary honors, when burning poetry was dedicated to her, 
bouquets of choice flowers sent her, then she grew very hope- 
ful, with the thrill of gratified ambition. 

How brilliant life seemed opening to me ! Not a cloud was 
visible on the horizon, and prosperity settled down, for once, 
like a spell of purity, on a human heart. I grew not arrogant 
with success ; I was never more humble, less self-reliant, 
than in those chance, bright hours of happiness. Gratitude 
lay like dew upon my heart, and trembled upward on every 
prayer to the throne of the Eternal. 

Ah ! sunshine prepares us not for clouds — joy, for sorrow. 



AN AUTOBIOGEAPHY. 



We repine, the past seems so much brighter as it recedes ; it 
is a terrible trial, — it requires a mine of stern moral courage 
to look upon the future rolling in clouds of darkness and 
gloom. 



CHAPTER II. 



" I wake ! Away that dream — away ! 
Too long did it remain ; 
So long that, both by night and day. 
It ever comes again." 

The moonlight flooded with silver the lucid waters of Lake 
George, and, stealing through the blushing foliage of the frost- 
kissed sycamores, played over the fairy-like villa rising amid 
a wilderness of garden shrubbery beyond. Soft and slow 
came the clear chime of a bell in the distance, mingling with 
the gentle rippling of the waters and the rustling of the 
leaves. 

An impassioned worshipper of the beautiful, the loveliness 
of' that hour would have sufficed to have impressed itself upon 
my memory, as, a short distance withdrawn from a gay group, 
I stood gazing upon the surrounding scenery. 

But a figure coming slowly down the village street arrested 
my attention. Nearer and yet nearer it drew, pausing before 
the garden-gate a moment ; and, as it stood with raised hat, 
the bright moonlight revealed the original of the shadow in 
its little case reposing beneath the folds of the cashmere 
folded about me. 

Then the deep-toned, musical voice, heard hitherto but in 
dreams, and Laurie Oakland and I had met — met as stran- 
gers meet ! 

What was the past? A mere dreavi, an idle whim, a 
sportive creation of Fancy, amusing the ennui of life. In the 
actual may we ever realize the glowing ideal? "Never!" 
answers the cold, calm voice of Reason. Laurie Oakland 



322 THREADS DRAWN FR03I LIFE: 

was, after all, but a mere man of tlie world, utterly divested 
of tliose hero-like attributes with which I had invested him. 
But not then — not on that bland, glorious autumn night, 
when my spirit yielded itself to the intoxicating beauty of all 
things about me — could I realize this. 

O, perverse yet wondrous heart of womanhood! making 
idols but to find them clay, and to worship still, beautiful even 
in thy weakness ! Had I met Laurie Oakland in society, he 
would have possessed no power by which to attract me ; but 
when I looked upon the home which he had wrought out of 
what must have been an innate element of creative beauty, 
as by his side I stood, one soft, moonlight night, within the 
grounds circling Oakwood, the moon's rays stealing down 
through the oak-boughs, and rippling into a carpet of dark 
leaves and delicate silver tracery the ground beneath us, my 
fancy became captive, and imagination was ever busied in 
framing apologies for his worldliness, or absolutely denying 
credence to that which was by rumor attributed to him. 

Bumor was indeed busy with his name ; and, in a half- 
whisper, I was soon made the reciprocant of a dark, sorrow- 
ful story, in which he had part. A doom was hanging over 
his life ; an hereditary curse, which had fallen on nearly all 
of his name, was told to me by officious friends ; and, with 
the threatened evil of insanity, Laurie Oakland possessed a 
powerful hold upon my sympathies. 

Whether there was any substantial foundation for this story 
I never knew ; but the threatened danger never occurred to 
him, and the sorrowful expression which dimmed at times the 
light of those deep-blue eyes thrilled the love dawning in my 
bosom into inefiable tenderness. 

O, the affection which, in the guilelessness and fervor of 
youth, I lavished on that man, - — which, forgetful of every 
worldly advantage, turned to him, the sorrow-laden, to cheer 
und gladden ! How, ah ! how was it repaid ? 

But I would not yet speak of it ; only of the sunshine 



AN AUTOBIOaRAPHY. 323 

whicli preceded the storm. Day by day they return to me, ia 
their happiness, those numbered hours of joy ; even the long, 
still Sabbath morning, when we rambled into the primeval 
woods, where on the oak's gigantic trunk he carved letters 
which were to outlast his fickle faith, or gathered the maple's 
crimson leaves, to mingle with the sycamore's golden foliage, 
and lie together, for the winter's bouquet, in some quaint, pon- 
derous volume of by-gone days. 

With the spell with which he enchained me, I forgot the 
world, and the world ceased to remember me. Ambition 
slumbered ; for I remembered the poet's words, — 

" "What I most prize in woman 
Is her affection, not her intellect : 
The intellect is finite ; but the affections 
Are infinite." 

And Laurie Oakland knew me but as a simple, trusting girl, 
— a devoted, loving woman ; and he turned from me, who had 
but afi'ection to ofi"er for his acceptance, to a golden star 
which was wooing him in the distance. Still the same calm 
smile, still the serene, quiet manner, remained ; and not the 
faintest revelation of my bosom's secret revealed to him my 
regret. 

The genius which other and greater men had acknowledged 
and sought to foster, the not unnatural pride of one who had 
received the adulation which had been prolfered me, were 
alike forgotten. Day after day went by, and hope after hope 
faded silently, as the drooping leaves upon the trees. 

Winter's first snow-storm came, and lay like a shroud over 
the dead beauty of autumn; and the last day which I was to 
spend by the waters of Lake George was at hand. Sunday 
preceded it, — a cold, gray, winter day. 

Laurie Oakland had been absent for some time ; it was 
rumored that his marriage-day had been fixed. But that 
Sunday morning he entered the old gray church, where we 



324 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE : 

had worshipped together in the earlier days of our acquaint- 
ance. He glided quietly up the aisle (for he professed a 
reverence for all things sacred), seating himself just beforo 
me; and I was ignorant of his presence in the sanctuary, until, 
joining in the Litany, the deep, musical voice murmured, clear 
and audibly, " God, the Father of Heaven, have mercy 
upon us miserable sinners! " I looked up, and the steady 
gaze of those sad blue eyes met my own with an expression 
of strange tenderness. Even now I tremble as I recall the 
emotion of that moment, — the degree of idolatrous worship 
offered by me there, in the very sanctuary of Him who for- 
bade the creation of idols. Like some wild and deadly mon- 
soon it swept in desolation over my spirit ; and then, with 
the solemn tones of the rector's voice, " holy, blessed, and 
glorious Trinity, have mercy upon us miserable sinners ! " fall- 
ing upon my ear, like an oasis in the desert, sprang up the 
sweet prayer of supplication for pardon, "Spare us, good 
Lord ! " and I no longer glanced towards Laurie Oakland. 

The heiress was his betrothed bride ; yet love such as should 
alone have been given to her lay in the glance and lurked in 
the tones which addressed me in coldness and reserve. But a 
secret joy, a proud exultation, in the power with which I con- 
trolled all manifestation of my own unhappiness, filled my 
soul, and strengthened me in the hour of parting, when, with 
the iron clang of the steamer's bell, her prow cleft the waves, 
and the master of Oakwood, on his bridal morning, stood ovit 
upon a balcony, waving his hat in silent adieu, as, shooting 
beneath the cliff below, we passed from his sight. And there, 
beneath those fairy-like turrets, all snow-crowned and glitter- 
ing in the morning sun, with that false heart remained the 
shattered fragments of what had once been faith, and hope, 
and tenderness. 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 325 



CHAPTER III. 



" The star of the unconquered will, 
He rises in my breast ; 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 
And calm, and self-possessed." 

Down the shadowy aisles of the past floated three years, — 
years fraught not with the buoyant merriment of earlier days, 
but years that had looked upon the weary student of life 
battling with that subtle lesson whose intricacies destiny led 
her to master. 0, a difficult task is it to turn from the fabu- 
lous tale of hope and joy, all brilliant and glowing, to the 
passionless lore of duty ; but it is consoling, in the end, 
when the good battle is fought, and virtue is the victor, to 

" Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong." 

Three years had passed, and Christmas eve had come, — a 
clear, cold, winter night. The chime of the clock in the hall 
announcing the hour of midnight, I suffered the pen which 
had been gliding for more than an hour rapidly over my 
paper to rest, and, rising, crossed to the window, and looked 
out. A light, soft snow had fallen, covering the frozen earth, 
loading the boughs of the trees ; and the clouds, rolling back 
from the moon, suffered her chaste light to illuminate the 
scene. I was very weary ; for, during the evening, much had 
occurred to agitate me. The day which had been for some 
time anticipated had that night been fixed upon, — my wed- 
ding-day ; and he who was to share with me its solemnity 
had not been long gone. Still the echo of his voice, so 
richly modulated, which had thanked me, in deep emotion, for 
the boon which I had granted him, lingered on my ear ; still, 
in remembrance, I beheld the noble form which had sat beside 
me, — the mature, brilliant man, who had expressed with 



326 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE ! 

sucli earnest eloquence his regard for me, — the man whom 
I at length revered and loved. Involuntarily my glance wan- 
dered to the mirror, and, with a sudden impulse, I went for- 
ward and gazed therein. 

The tall, slight figure held itself more erect than of old ; 
the lip had lost something of its girlish gayety, and no longer 
quivered with every passing thought. A line, not of passion- 
less pride, but calm resolve, was visible ; the cheek was paler, 
thinner, than in other years. 

That countenance was a faithful index of my own heart, — 
resolute, calm and self-sustained, proud of the strength of 
spirit which had subdued the restless longing after the unat- 
tainable. But, as I gazed, once more memory called up the 
graceful figure of one exiled by duty from remembrance ; and 
I turned to the window to bow my cheek to the cold panes, 
while tear after tear ran down the frost-wreathed glass ; — not 
tears of bitterness or pain, only a silent melting away of the 
quiet sorrow of my soul. Long they rained, and quietly. 
Then I folded the curtain, and gazed about me ; and some- 
thing there was of exultation and pride thrilling through my 
entire being, as I looked upon the beautiful edition of a recent 
collection of my writings, which had that day been sent to me 
from the publishers ; and I folded up the volume to the address 
of Laurie Oakland. 

Long were the reveries which were mine that winter night ! 
Void of all enthusiasm was the emotion with which I became 
the bride of Reynell Chivers, but pure and blessed was the 
consummation of that tie. He knew the secret of my younger 
romance. No traitor was I to steal into his bosom. He knew 
that the fire which had been lighted for another had gone out 
forever. And even the strong, powerful man, with his bril- 
liant intellect and rock-like strength of character, sorrow and 
disappointment had not spared. His boyhood's dreams were 
dispersed. He offered me not young manhood's glowing love. 
It was but a tribute which the mature scholar paid to the 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 327 

young aspirant's success when Eeynell Chivers first offered 
me his homage ; and as such I understood and accepted it. 

On New Year's eve we were married. Surrounded by 
congratulating friends, kneeling at God's altar, one moment 
memory, truant-like, wandered from the accepted one beside 
me ; there was a longer, deeper respiration, a slight throbbing 
pain at my heart, and it passed forever. Not to the vow then 
warm upon my lips was I false ; not, in after hours, in the 
momentary void and loneliness of a brilliant life ; not, though 
every struggle had snapt a chord within my heart in twain ; 
not, for all life holds dearest and fairest, false even in thought 
to my marriage vow. 

Ada's destiny was not mine. God, in his infinite mercy, 
had averted it ; my heart had strengthened, not frozen, in 
trial. If the love which I gave Reynell Chivers possessed not 
the impassioned fervor, the almost idolatrous worship, which 
had been lavished in early girlhood, it was serene and un- 
changing, founded on principle. It cheered him when he 
grew weary with the strife of living ; it sympathized with him 
in his aspirations after the noble and the beautiful; it rejoiced 
with him in their attainment ; and last, but not least, when 
sickness and death followed close upon our bridal year, it fell 
like soft sunshine on his fading life, and, in unfaltering ten- 
derness, went down with him to the peace and quietude of the 
grave. 

In the interval Laurie Oakland had lived, it was said, un- 
happily ; gold bore little happiness to Oakwood. There was 
nothing of congeniality between his heart and the young bride 
of his choice. The indulged child of affluence, who had 
known no will but her own, could not tame her wayward 
fancies to his perchance too exacting will ; she could not put 
from her thoughts gayety when his brow clouded, and pour 
down into the depths of his aching heart the balm of devoted, 
self-sacrificing love. 

A mere household automaton, she soon lost herself in the 



328 THREADS DRAWN FROM LIFE : 

petty duties of domestic life, unable to arouse herself to en- 
thusiasm — to awake to that love and appreciation of the 
beautiful which would have rendered her companionable to 
him. Alas ! that any one should be blind to the wondrous 
loveliness of nature — deaf to the glorious harmony of crea- 
tion ! Annie Oakland, the wife of the master of Oakwood, 
was like a tuneless instrument, giving forth, under the hand 
which would fain have awoke one responsive note, no tone of 
music. 

But he had no right to repine ; of his own free accord had 
he listened to the syren voice of ambition, and turned a deaf 
ear to love's pleadings. What though his life was a void and 
barren thing ? He had wrought his own destiny ; he had 
chosen to be the worldling's slave. 

Not even when his higher nature recoiled, — even when the 
heart, which had for a time slumbered, awoke and called aloud 
in its cravings for that blessed, adorable, all-enduring thing, 
woman's love, — could he avert the fate which he had brought 
upon himself. 

Perchance, had he sought more diligently after the good in 
his wife's character, had he been less impatient, more perse- 
vering, some latent fire within that young bosom would have 
developed itself — some fair bud might have sprung up, oasis- 
like, in the barren waste, which careful culture and gentle 
guidance might have won into a beautiful and fragrant blos- 
som. But Laurie Oakland possessed not the strength requi- 
site, and the distance grew between them. 

No soft fluttering of scarf or handkerchief from the terrace 
of Oakwood, on his return home, ever spoke of a fond watcher 
by his fireside ; no graceful form bounded down the avenue 
with eager readiness to greet the wanderer's return, or on the 
low seat nestled to his side, with earnest glance, as he read 
from the grand old masters, or " lent to the rhyme of the poet 
the music of his voice." 

It was in one of those hours in which the full reality of his 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 329 

desolation impressed itself upon him, when his heart was hot 
and restless, the future lone, and his fainting spirit seemed 
heavier than he could bear, that the presentation copy of my 
poems, which, without a word, I had forwarded to him, was re- 
ceived. Listlessly he withdrew the envelope, and opened the 
richly-embossed cover, glancing at its contents. Something 
there was like half-forgotten tones stealing to his memory, as 
line after line was scanned. One by one glided the hours 
uncounted by, and his cheek glowed, his lip quivered. A tear 
falling upon the snow-white page aroused him, and he laid it 
gently aside, while tear after tear rolled down his cheek, and 
was crushed disdainfully beneath his hand. 

Back wandered memory through the dim and spectral corri- 
dors of time, — back to the moonlit autumn, — and " Cara " 
broke, in one low, thrilling tone, upon the silence. 

Years passed on — years almost of forgetfulness. Then 
Annie Oakland slept the dreamless sleep ; and the widowed 
husband, and I, the bereaved wife, met — met far from the 
scenes of our earlier acquaintance — met as strangers meet, 
but for the questioning glance of those earnest eyes, whose 
light grief had dimmed. 

And I, world-weary, sorrow-laden, with the grace of youth 
forever gone, still might have awakened the tenderer reminis- 
cences of other years, and consecrated to him the residue of 
my life. But he whose truth had never wavered, from 
whom death had alone separated me, arose reverently in my 
memory between us, and Laurie Oakland and the wife of 
Reynell Chivers parted forever ! 

28=^ 



i TREATISE 



tlMP AND MARCH 

WITH •WHICH IS CONNECTED 

TJIE CONSTRUCTION OF TIELD WORKS 
AND MILITARY BRIDGES. 

■WITH AN 

I 

' APPENDIX OF AUTILLERY RANGES, &c. 

FOR USE or 

VOLUNTEERS AND MILITIA IN THE UNITED STATES. 



By HENEY D. GEAETON, 

CAPTAIN FIRST REGIMENT U. S. ARTILLERY 



BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED BY FETRIDGE AND COMPANY. 

1854. 



HAGAR THE MARTYR; 



PASSION AND EEALITY. 

/ 

A TALE OF THE NORTH AND SOUTH. 

BY 

MRS. H. MARION STEPHENS. 

WILL IS DESTINY. 



Alas ! O, alas I for the trusting heart, 

When its fairy dream is o'er ; 
When it learns that to trust is to be deceived — 
Finds the things most false which it most belieyed I 

Alas J for it dreams no more J 



BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED BY W. P. FETRIDGE & CO. 

1855. 



EVENTIDE 



A SERIKS OF 



T^ILES A^NT> f»OEMS 



BY 



EFFIE AETON. 



" I never gaze 
Upon the evening, but a tide of awe, 
And love, and wonder, from the Infinite, 
Swells up within me, as the running brine 
From the smooth-glistening, wide-heaving sea, 
Grows in the creeks and channels of a stream, 
Until it threats its banks. It is not joy, — 
'T is sadness more divine." 

Alexander Smith. 



BOSTON: 
FETRIDQE AND COMPANY. 

1854. 



THE 



COQUETTE 



OR, 



THE HISTORY OF 



ELIZA WHARTON. 

A NOVEL: 

FOUNDED ON FACT. 

BY 

A LADY OF MASSACHUSETTS. 

Seto mtmi 

WITH AN HISTORICAL PREFACE, 

AND 

A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 



BOSTON: 
WILLIAM P. FETRIDGE AND COMPANY. 

18 5 5. 



iittU i0lks' mr. 



STORIES, SKETCHES, POEMS, AND 
PARAGRAPHS, 



DESIGNED TO 



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MRS. L. S. GOODWIN. 



BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED BY W. P. FETRIDGE & CO. 

1855. 



HOME SCENES AND HOME SOUNDS 



OR. 



THE WORLD PROM MY WINDOW. 



BY 



H. MARION STEPHENS. 



BOSTON: 
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M DCCC LIV. 



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[JNIYERSAL HISTORY, 

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BY THE LATE 

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Lord Woodhouselee, Senator of the College of Justice, and Lord Com^ 

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Civil History and Greek and Roman Antiquities in the 

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THE BALM OF 

FDR BEAUTIFYING THE COMPLEXION, AND REMOVING ALL 

TAN, PIMPLES, AND FRECKLES; 

FOR SHAVING, AND CLEANSING THE TEETH. 



THE FOLLOWING ARE A FEW INOTICES OF THE PRESS. 

From tlie S^ditor of tlie liondon Mail. 

BALM OF THOUSAND FLOWERS. 

This is the euphonic and very poetical name of a new and valuable 
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thousands who uie it in preference to all other cosmetics. 



FETRIDGE AND COMPANY. 



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From Godey's liady's Book. 

BALM OF THOUSAND FLOWERS, 

For removing all tans, pimples, and freckles from the face, for remov- 
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FETRIDGE AND COMPANY. 



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Messes. Fetbidgb & Co. 

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My kind regards to your Mr. Fetridge, and believe me. 
Your ob't serv't, 

H. T. JOHNSON, 

St. Martin's Lane 



'Site follo-wiiig is from Gaylord Clark, of tlie Knickerbocker 
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It is not our wont to allude to kindred fabrications, but we can say, 
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ity, all that it purports to be. 



FETRIDOE & CO., 

PUBLISHERS AND BOOKSELLERS, 

3 and 5 State Street, and 72 and 74 Washington Street, Boston, 
Keep constantly on hand a large assortment of 

LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, JUVEIVILE, 

AND 

All the Cheap Publications of the day, comprising 
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and receive subscriptions to all 

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for most of which they are the Publishers' Agents. 



F. & Co. pay particular attention to Orders from the coun- 
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All works, by whomisoever advertised or published, sup- 
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